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A Liye 

at School 

(c tr o R e) 

The Diary of a School Day 

BY 

EDMONDO DE AMICIS 

TRANSLATED FROM THE LATEST ITALIAN EDITION 
BY 

OSCAR DURANTE, Ph.D. 


f lluatrate^ 

WITH HUNDREDS OF FINE ENGRAV- 
INGS BY EMINENT ITALIAN ARTISTS 



CHICAGO df NEW YORK 
THE HENNEBERRY COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 




the library ®f 
eONGRESS, 
Two CofHga Received 

MAR. e ■ 190? 

C«aps^lOHT ENTRY 

CLA^a XXa N4*. 

yolCp 

COPY a 



COPYRIGHT, Igor, 
BY THE 

HENNEBERKY 

COMI'ANY 




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age, and it might have been called: “History of a 
Scholar of the Third Class of a Municipal School of 
Italy.” By saying that it was written by a scholar of 
the third class I do not mean that it was really written 
by him exactly as it is printed. He kept a diary of 
what he saw, felt and thought in and out of school; 
and at the end of the year his father wrote these pages 
from that diary, endeavoring not to alter the thought 
and to preserve as much as possible the words of his 
son. Four years afterwards his son, while attending 
the high school, read once more the manuscript and 
added to it something of his own, drawing upon his 
memory, still fresh of the persons and things. Now 
read this book, boys. I hope that you will like it and 
that it will do you some good. 





CONTENTS 


October: ' page 

• The First Day at School ii' 

Our Teacher, 13 

An Accident, 15 

The Calabrian Boy 17 

My Schoolmates 19 

A Noble Deed, 21 

My Teacher of the Upper First, 23 

In the Garret 25 

The School, . 27 

The Young Patriot of Padua, 29 

November: 

The Chimney Sweep 32 

All-Soul’s Day, . 34 

My Companion Garrone, 36 

The Poor Coal Man and the Wealthy Man, 38 

My Brother’s Teacher, 40 

My Mother 43 

My Schoolmate Correti, 44 

The Principal 49 

The Soldiers, 51 

Nelli’s Protector, 53 

The Foremost in the Class, 56 

The Young Scout of Lombardy, 58 

The Poor, 64 

December: 

The Trader, 67 

Vanity, 69 

The First Snow-fall, 72 

The Little Mason, . . • 74 

A Snow Ball, 76 

Lady Teachers, 79 

In the Home of the Wounded Man, 80 

The Little Florentine Scribe 82 

Will, 91 

Gratitude, 93 


7 


8 


CONTENTS 


January: page 

The Assistant Teacher, . . 96 

Stardi’s Library 98 

A Fine Visit, . 102 

The Funeral of Victor Emanuel, 104 

Franti Expelled 106 

The Sardinian Drummer-Boy, 109 

The Love of Country 119 

Envy, 120 

Franti’s Mother, « . 122 

Hope, . 124 

February: 

A Medal Well Bestowed, 127 

Good Resolutions, . 129 

The Engine, . 131 

Pride, i33 . 

The Wounds of Labor, 135 

The Prisoner, 137 

Daddy’s Nurse, 14 1 

The Work Shop, 152 

. The Little Clown, 154 

The Last Day of the Carnival, 158 

The Blind Boys, 161 

; , The Sick Master, 169 

The Street, 171 

March; 

The Evening Schools, 173 

■ The Fight, 176 

^ The Parents of the Boys, 178 

.. Number 78, 180 

, A Little Dead Boy, 182 

. • The Eve of the Fourteenth of March, 184 

;, • The Distribution of Prizes, . . . . * 186 

Strife, 192 

My Sister 194 

V Blood of Romagna, 196 

, ^ The Little Mason Very 111 204 

Count Cavour . . . 207 


CONTENTS 


9 


April: page 

Spring, 210 

King Humbert, 211 

The Infant Asylum, 217 

Gymnastics, 222 

My Father’s Teacher, 225 

Convalescence, ' 236 

Our Friends, the Workingmen 238 

Garrone’s Mother, . 240 

Giuseppe Mazzini, 242 

Civic Valor, 244 

May: 

Rickety Children, 251 

Sacrifice, 254 

The Fire, 257 

From the Apennines to the Andes 262 

Summer, 302 

Poetry 304 

The Deaf Mute, 306 

June: 

Garibaldi, 317 

The Army 318 

Italy, 321 

Thirty-two Degrees, 322 

My Father, 325 

In the Country, 326 

The Distribution of the Prizes to the Workingmen, . . 331 

The Dead School Teacher, 334 

Thanks, 336 

Shipwreck, 338 

July: 

The Last Page From My Mother, 347 

The Examinations, 348 

The Final Examination, 351 

Farewell, 353 


FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS 


Garrone arose, and said resolutely, “ It was I,” . Frontispiece 
Others upon seeing their parents leave began to cry. 

He pointed out to them Reggio di Calabria on the wall map of 
Italy, 

In a few plain words the boy told his story, 

Then Nobis’ father offered his hand to the coalman^ who 
grasped it heartily. 

He took the bunches and carried them to his father’s store. 

This boy was the picture of his dead son. 

The Regimental band surrounded by a crowd of boys. 

Carrying wood to heat the school-room. 

The old man had a bandage over his eye. 

With his brow against his son’s heart, 

Then the troops sprang out of the door, with bayonets lowered, 
Presently a short, stout military surgeon in his shirt-sleeves, 
passed 

The poor woman threw herself almost on her knees before the 
principal. 

After the evening prayer, 

He pinned the medal on his shoulder, 

Stretched on the litter was a man white as a corpse. 

For one winter he went to give lessons to the prisoners in the 
judicial prison, 

A lad dressed as a peasant and carrying a bundle of clothes 
under his arm. 

The nurse drew aside the curtains, and said: “ Here is your 
sick father,” 

The blind boys in the music room. 

The surrounded Coraci lifted him by the legs and carried him 
through the streets in triumph , 

The grandmother asleep in the big arm chair, 

*‘Oh Ferruccio! my poor little grandson!” she replied, plac- 
ing her hands on his head, 

He approached the desk and opened the drawer, 

Reaching the unfortunate lad, he seized him just in time, and 
drew him to the surface, 

The doctor was there visiting them, 

A long line of wagons was put in order, 

He stood watching the convoy until it was lost to sight. 

He slept under a tree. 

The funeral of our poor school teacher. 

The terror-stricken passengers gathered around the priest, 

The final examination in the large hall, 

1.0 



OTHERS UPON SEEING THEIR PARENTS EEAVE, hEGAN TO CRY 




A Boy’s Life at School 


OCTOBER 

THE FIRST SCHOOL DAY 

Monday, the 17th. 

This is the first school' day. These three months of 
vacation that I spent in the country have passed like a 
dream! My mother accompanied me to the Baretti 
School this morning to have me entered in the third 
elementary; I was thinking of the country and went 
unwillingly. All the streets were filled with boys; the 
two booksellers* stores were crowded with fathers and 
mothers who were buying school bags, portfolios and 
copybooks, and so many people had gathered in front 
of the school that the janitor and the policeman found 
it difficult to keep the entrance clear. 


II 


12 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


Near the door I felt a touch on my shoulder; it was 
my second class teacher, ever cheerful, with his red 
hair ruffled, who said to me: “Are we then separated 
forever, Enrico?” I was well aware of it, yet those 
words pained me. 

We entered with difflculty. Ladies, gentlemen, 
women of the middle class, laborers, offlcers, grand- 
mothers, servants, all leading boys with one hand and 
carrying the promotion books in the other, filled the 
hall and the stairway, making such a buzzing that it 
seemed more like entering a theater. With pleasure I 
hailed again that large room on the ground floor with 
the doors leading to the seven classes where I had 
passed almost each day for three years. There was a 
crowd, the teachers were going back and forth. The 
teacher who had taught me in the first upper grade 
greeted me from the door of her class-room, and said : 
“Enrico, you are going to the floor above this year, 
and I will be unable to see you pass by any more!” 
and looked sadly at me. Gathered around the prin- 
cipal were mothers in distress, there being no more 
room for their children, and it seemed to me that his 
beard had grown whiter since the year before. Some 
of the boys had grown taller and stouter. 

On the main floor, where the divisions had already 
been made, there were little children of the first and 
lowest section who did not want to enter the class- 
rooms, and balked like mules; it became necessary to 
drag them in by force, but some escaped from the 
benches; others, itpon seeing their parents leave, began 
to cry, whereupon they had to go back to comfort and 
scold them, the teachers being in despair. My little 
brother was assigned to Mistress Delcati’s class, and I 
was put with Master Perboni up on the first floor. 


OCTOBER 


13 


Our class, numbering fifty-four, were all in their seats 
at ten o’clock; only fifteen or sixteen of my second 
class schoolmates, among them being Derossi, gener- 
ally the first-prize winner. How gloomy and small 
the school seemed when I thought of the woods and 
mountains where I had passed the summer ! I thought 
also of my second class master, who was so good that 
he always laughed with us and was so small that he 
seemed to be one of us, and I felt sorry that I would 
no longer see him there with his fuzzy rod hair. Our 
new teacher is tall with long gray hair, no beard, and 
has a wrinkle straight across his forehead. He has a 
strong voice and looks steadily at one after the other, 
as though to read our inmost thoughts, never smiling 
through it all. I said to myself: “This is my first 
day, and still nine months more with lots of work and 
monthly examinations — how tiresome!’’ I looked for 
my mother, whom I found at the entrance, and kissed 
her hand. She said to me: “We will study together, 
so have courage, Enrico. ’’ So I returned home happy, 
but have no longer my kind teacher, with his merry 
smile, and school life seems dull to me now. 

OUR TEACHER 

Tuesday, the i8th. 

Since this morning I seemed to like my new teacher. 
While we were taking our seats and when he was 
already at his desk, several of his last year’s scholars 
peeped in at the door and greeted him: “Good morn- 
ing, signor teacher!’’ “Good day. Signor Perboni!’’ 
Some came in, touched his hand and fled. This showed 
how much they thought of him, and would have been 
glad to return to him. He answered: “Good morn- 


14 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


ing, ’ ’ shook the extended hands, looking at no one and 
at every greeting remained serious, with his straight 
wrinkle on his forehead, turned toward the window 
and staring at the roof of the opposite house, and 
instead of being well pleased these greetings seemed 
to annoy him. Then he looked at each one of us, 
attentively. He walked down the aisles between our 
benches, while dictating and noticing a pupil whose 

face was all red with pim- 
ples, he stopped, took the 
lad’s face between his hands 
and looked at him, asked 
what was the matter and 
felt his forehead to see if it 
was warm. In the mean- 
time, a boy behind him stood 
on his bench and began to 
play the marionette. Sud- 
denly our teacher turned and 
the boy sat down quickly and 
waited for his punishment. 
Laying his hand on the boy’s 
head the teacher said: 
“Never do this again!’’ and 
returned to his desk. Upon ending the dictation, he 
silently looked at us for a moment, and then said 
slowly, in his loud yet kind voice: 

“Listen! As we have a year to pass together, let us 
try to go through it well. Study and be good. Hav- 
ing no family of my own, you will become my family. 
My mother died last year and now I have no one else 
in the world but you. All my thoughts and affection 
are for you. You must be my sons and love me as I 
love you. I do not wish to be obliged to punish one of 




HP: pointed out to them REGGIO D1 CALABRIA ON THE WALL MAP 


OF ITALY 


■ 




* 

» L 



« 



f 


OCTOBER 


15 


you. Show me that you are good-hearted boys, and 
our school will be a family and you will be my conso- 
lation and pride. I will not ask you for a promise, for 
I am sure that in your hearts you have already 
answered me 'yes/ and I thank you.” 

The janitor here interrupted to announce that school 
was over, and we left our desks very quietly. The 
boy who had stood upon his bench went over to the 
teacher and said to him in a trembling voice : 

‘‘Signor teacher, will you forgive me?” 

The teacher kissed his forehead and said: ‘‘Go, my 
son.” 


AN ACCIDENT 

Friday, the 21st. 

An accident has happened at the commencement of 
the year. I was repeating to my father the words of 
the teacher, as he was taking me to school this morn- 
ing, when we saw the street crowded with people who 
were gathering before the schoolhouse. My father 
said: ‘‘An accident; the year is beginning badly.” 

We made our way in with some difficulty. The 
large hall was so filled with parents and children, that 
the teachers could not clear the way to their class- 
rooms, and all were turned toward the principal’s office 
and many were saying: ‘‘Poor boy! Poor Robetti!” 

At the end of the room, which was filled with people, 
we could see over their heads the helmet of a police- 
man and the bald head of the principal ; then a gentle- 
man with a high hat entered and all said: ‘‘The 
doctor!” 

My father asked a teacher: ‘‘What is the trouble?” 
‘‘A wheel has passed over his foot,” he replied. ‘‘His 


i6 A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 

foot has been crushed,” said another. It was a pupil 
of the second class who, while going to school by the 
way of the Dora Grossa, saw a child, belonging to the 
kindergarten, run away from his mother and fall in 
the middle of the street a few feet away from a street 
car, which would have surely run over him had not the 
boy hastened bravely to his rescue and saved him ; but 
he was not quick enough to withdraw his own foot, and 



artillery. While this was being ex- 
plained us, a lady entered the large hall in a frantic 
condition, forcing her way through the crowd ; it was 
Robetti’s mother, for whom they had sent. Another lady 
ran towards her and threw her arms around her neck, 
sobbing; it was the mother of the little one who had 
been saved. Both flew into the room, desperately crying ; 


OCTOBER 


17 


“Oh, my own Giulio! My child!” A carriage stopped 
at the door at that moment, and the principal appeared 
carrying in his arms the lad, who leaned his head on 
his shoulder, with an ashen hue on his face and closed 
eyes. All were still, the mother’s sobs could be 
heard.- The principal stopped awhile, pale, and rais- 
ing up the boy in his arms showed him to the people. 
Then teachers, parents and children murmured : 
“Bravo, Robetti! Bravo, poor child!” and threw 
kisses to him. The teachers and children who were 
able to get near him kissed his hands and arms. He 
opened his eyes and said: “My school bag!” The 
mother of the saved child showed it to him and, her 
eyes filling with tears, said: “I will carry it for you, 
dear angel, I will carry it for you.” In the meantime 
she was supporting the unfortunate boy’s mother, who 
covered her face with her hands. They went out 
assisted the lad in the carriage, which drove away. 
Then we all returned to our rooms in silence. 


THE CALABRIAN BOY 

Saturday, the 2 2d. 

During the afternoon, yesterday while the teacher 
was telling us all about poor Robetti, who will have to 
walk on crutches for some time, the principal entered 
with a new scholar, a boy with a brown complexion, 
black hair, big black eyes, thick meeting eyebrows, 
and dressed in dark clothes with a black morocco belt 
around his waist. The principal after having whis- 
pered to the teacher, walked out leaving the boy who 
glanced about with a frightened look in his big black 
eyes. The teacher, taking him by the hand, said to 
the class: “You must be glad. Today a little Italian, 


i8 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


born in Reggio di Calabria, over five hundred miles 
from here, enters our school. You must learn to love 
your brother who has come here from so far. He was 
born in a glorious place, which gave to Italy many 
illustrious men, and which gives her hard working men 
and brave soldiers, one of the most picturesque parts 
of our fatherland, where are immense forests and 
large mountains, inhabited by people of intelligence 
and courage. Be good to him, so that he will forget 
the distance that separates him from his birthplace; 



show him that an Italian lad will find 
a brother in whatever Italian school 
he sets his foot. ” 

After this he arose and pointed out Reggio di Cala- 
bria on the wall map of Italy. Then he loudly called: 
“Ernest Derossi!” the boy who always gets the first 
prize — Derossi — stood up. “Come here,” said the 
teacher. Derossi left his seat and stood by the desk 
facing the Calabrian boy. 

“As the head of the class,” said the teacher, “give 
the newcomer a welcome in the name of the whole class, 
the welcome of the sons of Piedmont to a son of Cala- 
bria.” 

Derossi threw his arms around the Calabrian boy 


OCTOBER 


19 


and said in his clear voice: “Welcome!” and the 
other kissed him lovingly on the cheeks. All clapped 
their hands. 

* ‘ Silence ! ’ ’ shouted the teacher “You must not clap 
your hands in school!” But his joy was evident and 
the Calabrian boy was joyful also. The teacher 
assigned him a seat and then said: 

“Remember well what I am about to tell you. In 
order to make it possible that the Calabrian boy should 
be at home in Turin and a boy from Turin should be 
at home in Calabria, our country has fought for fifty 
years, and thirty thousand Italians have died. You 
must respect and love each other, but should any one 
of you offend this schoolmate because he was not born 
in our province, he would make himself unworthy of 
ever again raising his eyes upon our country’s flag.” 

When the Calabrian boy took his seat, the boys 
around him gave him pens and a picture card, and a 
boy from a rear seat sent him a Swedish postage 
stamp. 


MY SCHOOLMATES 

Tuesday, the 25th. 

I like best of all among my classmates the boy who 
sent the stamp to the Calabrian boy. His name is 
Garrone ; is the tallest of the class, has a large head 
and broad shoulders and is nearly fourteen years old. 
He is good: his smile shows that; but he seems to 
be always thinking like a man. At present I am 
acquainted with most of my schoolmates. I also like 
another one whose name is Coretti. He wears a 
knitted coat, and a cat-skin cap. He is always full of 
fun. His father is a second-hand woodseller, and was a 
soldier in the war of 1866 in Prince Humbert’s army. 


20 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


and it is said he has three medals. There is little Nelli, 
a poor hunchback, a delicate boy with a thin face. 
There is one who always dresses in fine velvet and his 
name is Votini. In the bench in front of me there is 
a youngster whom they call “the little mason, “ because 
his father is a mason. His face is as round as an 
apple, his nose like a little ball, and is very intelligent. 
He knows how to make a hare’s face and the boys 
delight in seeing him do it so that they can laugh. He 
wears a little soft cap which he rolls in a little ball and 
carries in his pocket. Sitting next to the little mason 
there is Garoffi, a lanky, silly boy with a nose and 
mouth like an owl and with very small eyes. He is 
always trading pens, picture-cards and match-boxes, 
and writes his lesson on his finger-nails to read them 
on the sly. Then there is a young gentleman, Charles 
Nobis, who seems very proud, and he sits between two 
lads whom I like very much ; the son of a blacksmith 
iron-monger, dressed in a jacket which reaches his 
knees, with a sickly pallor, and has always a fright- 
ened look and never laughs; the other has red hair 
and has a useless arm which he has suspended from his 
neck; his father is in America, and his mother goes 
around peddling vegetables. To my left there is 
another peculiar type, Starde, short and fat, no neck, — 
a gruff fellow, who speaks to no one, and seems to 
understand very little, but is very attentive to the 
teacher, and never winks. His brow contracts with 
wrinkles, and his teeth are always shut tight; and .if 
his attention is interrupted while he listens to the 
teacher speaking to the class, he makes believe he does 
not hear the first or second time, but the third time he 
stamps his foot with anger. Besides there is a bold, 
shrewd face, and his name is Franti, and he has been 



IN A FEW PLAIN WORDS THE BOY TOLD HIS STORY 



OCTOBER 


2t 

suspended from another school. There are also two 
brothers dressed alike and who reSemble each other 
like the Siamese twins, and both of whom wear caps of 
Calabrian style, with a peasant’s plume. But hand- 
somest of all, the one who has the most talent, and 
who will surely be the first this year again, is Derossi ; 
and the teacher, who has already noticed, this, always 
questions him. But I prefer Precossi, the son of the 
blacksmith iron-monger, the one with the long coat, 
who looks sickly. They say that his father whips him ; 
he is very timid, and every time that he addresses or 
touches any one, he says: “Pardon me," and looks at 
them with his kind, sad eyes. However, Garrone is 
the biggest and the best. 


A NOBLE DEED 

Wednesday, the 26th. 

This very morning Garrone has shown us how brave 
he is. I entered the school a trifle late, because the 
teacher of the upper first had stopped me to ask at 
what hour she could see me at home. The teacher had 
not yet arrived, and three or four boys were torment- 
ing poor Crossi, who has red hair, and a paralyzed arm, 
and whose mother sells vegetables. They were poking 
him with rulers, throwing chestnut shells in his face, 
and calling him a cripple and a monster, even mimick- 
ing him because he had a lifeless arm. Sitting alone 
on the end of the bench, and quite pale, he began to 
be affected by it, gazing at each one in turn with 
pleading eyes as much as to say: “Please leave me 
alone.” But the others mocked him worse than ever, 
and he began to tremble, and turn as* red as fire with 
rage. All at once, Franti, the boy with the ugly face, 


22 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


jumped upon a bench, and making believe he was 
carrying a basket on each arm, he aped the mother of 
Crossi, when she came to wait for her son at the door, 
but who is very ill now. A large number began to laugh 
loudly. Then Crossi forgot himself, and seizing an 
inkstand, he hurled it at Fraud’s head with a terrible 
force; but Fraud dodged the blow and the inkstand 
struck the teacher, who happened to enter at the 
moment, full in the breast. 

The guilty ones ran to their seats, and became silent 
with terror. 

The teacher turned pale, went to his desk and said, 
in an altered voice : 

“Who did it?” 

No one replied. 

The teacher again demanded, raising his voice 
louder: “Who is it?” 

Then Garrone, who felt sorry for poor Crossi, rose 
abruptly and said, resolutely: “It was I.” 

The teacher looked at him, then looked at the 
abashed scholars; and said in a quiet voice: “It was 
not you. ' ’ 

Then he added: “The guilty one shall not be pun- 
ished. Let him rise!” 

Crossi, who was weeping, arose and said: “They 
were hitting and insulting me, and I lost my head and 
threw it.” 

“Sit down,” said the teacher. “Those who teased 
him arise. ’ ’ 

Four boys got up with bowed heads. 

“You,” said the teacher, “have insulted a classmate 
who had given you no cause ; you have made fun of an 
unfortunate lad, and have struck a weak person unable 
to defend himself. You have committed one of the 


r 


OCTOBER 


23 


lowest and most shameful acts which a human creature 
can be guilty of. Cowards!” 

Having said this he walked down the aisles, put his 
hand under Garrone’s chin, as the latter sat with 
bowed head, and having made him raise it, he looked 
straight into his eyes, and said: ‘‘You are a noble 
soul.” 

Garrone murmured some words which I do not know 
in the ear of the teacher, who turning towards the 
four culprits, said, abruptly: ‘‘I forgive you.” ^ 

MY TEACHER OF THE UPPER FIRST 

Thursday, the 27th. 

Today my old teacher kept the promise she made, 
and came just as I was about to go out with my mother 
to bring some linen to a poor woman recommended by 
the Gazette. She had not been to our house for a 
year. We all liked her very much. She is the same 
as ever, a tiny person, with a green veil wound around 
her bonnet, carelessly dressed, and with untidy hair 
because she has no time to fix herself nice. She has 
a little less color than last year, some gray hairs, and 
coughs frequently. My mother said to her: 

“How is your health, my dear teacher? You do not 
take enough care of yourself!” 

‘‘Never mind me,” the other replied, with her 
cheerful but sad smile. 

‘‘You speak too loud,” my mother added, ‘‘and 
strain yourself too. much with your pupils.” 

It is true, for her voice can always be heard. I 
remember when she was my teacher how she talked 
and talked all the time, so that the boys would keep 
their minds on their lessons, and she never seated her- 


24 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


self for a moment. I knew well she would come, 
because she never forgets her pupils, and always 
remembers their names for years. On the days of the 
monthly examination she runs to ask the principal 
what marks they have won. She waits for them at the 
entrance, and has them show her their compositions, 
so that she may see how they are • getting along, and 
many who now wear long trousers and a watch still 
come from the gymnasium to see her. She returned 
all out of breath today from the picture gallery, where 
she had taken her boys, just as she conducted them 
all to a museum every Thursday in past years, and 
explained everything to them. 

The poor teacher grows still thinner every year; 
but she is spry and always becomes animated when 
she talks about her school. She wanted to take a peep 
at the bed on which two years ago she had seen me 
lying very ill, and which is now occupied by my 
brother; she looked at it silently, ani departed quickly 
as she was obliged to visit a boy belonging to her 
class, the son of a saddler, who had been stricken with 
the measles. She also carried a package of papers to 
correct, which meant an evening’s work, and she has 
still a private lesson in arithmetic to give before night- 
fall to the head lady of a store. 

“Well, Enrico,’’ she said to me as she was depart- 
ing, “are you still fond of your school teacher, now 
that you solve difficult problems and write long 
compositions?’’ She kissed me, and called from the 
bottom of the stairs: “Do not forget me, dear En- 
rico!” Oh, my good teacher, never, never will I 
forget you! Even when I grow up to be a man I will 
remember you and will go to visit you among your 
boys; and every time that I go by a school and hear 


OCTOBER 


25 


the voice of a school teacher 1 shall imagine that I 
hear your voice, and I will remember the two years 
that I passed in your school, where I acquired so much 
knowledge, where I so often saw you so sick and tired, 
but always content, always indulgent, but in despair 
when any one did not hold his pen correctly, trembling 
when the superintendent questioned us, happy when 
we showed ourselves bright, always kind and loving as 
a mother. My teacher, while I live I shall never for- 
get you. 

IN THE GARRET 

Friday, the 28 th. 

Last night, I, my mother and sister Sylvia, helped 
to carry the linen to a poor woman who had appealed 
for assistance in the journal. I carried the clothes; 
Sylvia had the journal with the name and address. 
We climbed up to the top of the garret, also through a 
long corridor with many openings. My mother rapped 
at the last door ; a thin blond young woman opened 
the door, and it seemed to me that I had seen that face 
before, with that very same blue scarf that she wore 
on her head. 

“Are you the person who has advertised in the news- 
paper?” demanded my mother. 

“Yes, I am the party.” 

“Well, we have brought you a little linen.” 

The poor* woman could not thank and bless us 
enough. In the meantime, I noticed in a corner of the 
scanty, gloomy room a boy on his knees in front of a 
chair, with his back turned towards us, who no doubt 
was writing, because his paper was on the chair and 
his inkstand on the floor. Could it be possible he was 


26 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


writing in the dark? I was saying to myself. I quickly 
discovered the red hair and the rough jacket of Crossi, 
the son of the vegetable-peddler, the boy with the life- 
less arm. I whispered to my mother, while the woman 
was laying aside the things. 

“Hush!” replied my mother; “he will probably feel 
ashamed to see you because you always help his 
mother out, so don’t speak to him.” 

But at that instant 
Crossi turned around ; 
his action embarrassed 
me, but he smiled, and 
then my mother pushed 
me to make me run 
and hug him. I did so, 
and he rose and took 
my hand. In the mean- 
time his mother was 
saying to my mother: 
“I am alone here, with 
my son, my husband 
has been away in Amer- 
ica for seven years, and 
besides, I am ill, and 
find it impossible to go around selling vegetables to earn 
a few cents. Not even a table have we left for my poor 
Luigino to do his lessons on. There used to be a 
bench down at the door, then he could at least write on 
that, but it has been taken away. He has not even a 
little light so that he can study without injuring his 
eyes. It is a mercy that, I can send him to school, 
since the city supplies his books and copybooks. Poor 
Luigino, he would be so glad to study! Unhappy 
woman that I am!” 



OCTOBER 


27 


My mother handed her all that she had in her pocket- 
book, kissed the boy and nearly wept as we walked 
out Then she told me: “Think of that poor boy; 
think how he is bound to work, when you have all the 
comforts, and yet study is hard for you ! Ah ! Enrico, 
the work which he does in one day is more valuable 
than your work for a year; it is to such that the first 
prizes should be given ! ’ ’ 



Yes, my dear Enrico, study is hard for you, your 
mother says, yet I do not see you go to school with 
that willingness and smiling face which I should like. 
You are still doggedly — But listen; stop to think a 
little! How miserable and despicable your day would 
be if you did not go to school! In a week you would 
beg with clasped hands to return there, for you would 
feel wearied and ashamed, disgusted with your toys 
and with your existence. Everybody, everybody 
studies now, my dear Enrico. Think of the workmen 
who attend night schools after having toiled a whole 


28 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


day; think of the women and girls, who attend school 
on Sunday after having worked all the week; of the 
soldiers who have to read and write when they return 
exhausted from their drill! Think of the dumb and 
blind boys who study, too ; and last of all, think that 
even prisoners learn to read and write. In the morn- 
ing, when you go out, remember that at that same 
moment, in your own city, thirty thousand other boys 
go to school, close themselves up in a room for three 
hours, and study. Imagine the great number of 
boys, who at about this very hour go to school in every 
land. Bear in mind their going, going, through the 
paths of the undisturbed villages; through the streets 
of the busy city, on the banks of rivers and lakes; 
here beneath the scorching sun ; in the foggy lands, 
in boats, in countries full of canals; on horseback 
in the distant plains; in sledges across the snow; 
through valleys and over hills; over forests and tor- 
rents, over the lonely paths of mountains ; alone, with 
a partner, in groups, in long files, all with books under 
their arms, dressed in many different ways, speaking 
different languages from the most distant schools in 
Russia, 'nearly lost in the ice, to the most remote 
schools of Arabia, shaded by palm-trees, millions and 
millions of boys, all going to learn the same things in 
various 'ways. Think of boys of a hundred national- 
ities, this immense movement of which you form a 
part, and reflect if this movement were to cease we all 
would fall back into barbarism ; this movement is the 
advancement, hope and glory of the entire world. Be 
brave, then, little soldier of the immense army ! Your 
books represent your arms, your class is your squad- 
ron, the battlefield is the whole earth, and the victory 
is human civilization. Be a gallant soldier, my 
Enrico. Your Father. 


OCTOBER 


29 


THE YOUNG PATRIOT OF PADUA 
(THE MONTHLY STORY) 

Saturday, the 29th. 

No, I will not be a “cowardly soldier,” but I would 
go to school more willingly if the teacher would tell us 
a story every day, like the one which he told us this 
morning. “I shall tell you a story every month,” he 
said; “it shall be given you in writing, and will always 
fell of a brave and true deed performed by a boy. 
The name of this one is “The Young Patriot of Padua, ” 
and here it is: “A French steamer left Barcelona, a city 
in Spain, for Genoa, and had on board Frenchmen, 
Italians, Spaniards and Swiss. A lad of eleven, dressed 
poorly, and alone, holding himself away from every one, 
like a wild animal, and staring at all with sad eyes, was 
among the others. He could not help having sad 
eyes. His parents, who were peasants in the vicinity 
of Padua, two years before had sold him to the manager 
of a country circus, who, after having taught him all 
the tricks with the help of kicks, blows and fasting, 
had carried him all through France and Spain, always 
ill-treating and starving him. Upon arriving in 
Barcelona, he, being unable to stand ill-treatment and 
hunger any longer, and being reduced to a pitiable 
condition, had fled from his slave master and had 
asked protection of the Italian consul, who, feeling 
sorry for the condition of the boy, had placed him on 
board of this steamer, and had given him a letter to 
the marshal of Genoa, who was to return the boy 
to his parents — to the parents who had sold him like a 
slave. The poor lad was worn and sick. He was given 
a second-class berth. They all stared at him, some 
asked questions, but he answered no one. Privation 


30 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


and sorrow had saddened and irritated him to such an 
extent that he looked scornfully and despisingly at 
every one. Nevertheless, three passengers persisted 
in their questions, and succeeded in making him 
speak, and in a few rough words, a mixture of 
Venetian. French and Spanish, he told his story. 
These three passengers were not Italians, yet they 
understood him; partly out of compassion, and partly 
because they were almost intoxicated with wine, they 

threw pennies at 
him, jesting and 
urging him to tell 
them other things. 
At that moment 
several ladies 
walked into the sa- 
loon. They gave 
him some more 
money in order to 
make a show, 
shouting: ‘Take 
this ! Take this, 
too!’ and they 
made the money 
rattle on the table. 

“The boy stowed it all away in his pockets, and 
thanked them in a low voice, with his ugly mood, but 
with a look that was for the first time smiling and 
affectionate. Then he climbed into his berth, drew 
the curtain, and lay quiet, thinking about his affairs. 
That money would enable him to buy some good food 
on board, after two years of sufferings for lack of 
bread ; he could buy a coat as soon as he landed in 
Genoa* after he had gone about dressed in rags for 



OCTOBER 


31 


two years. He also would have brought it home, and 
his father and mother would have given him a more 
humane reception than if he had arrived with empty 
pockets. That money was a small fortune for him; 
and this thought was giving him relief behind the cur- 
tain of his berth, while the three chatted away, as they 
sat around the dining table in the second-class saloon. 
They were drinking and telling about their travels and 
the countries which they had seen ; and from one sub- 
ject to the other they cpmmenced to speak of Italy. 
One of them complained of the inns, another of the 
railroads, and then growing warmer, they all began to 
speak evil of everything. One would rather have 
traveled in Lapland, another stated that he had found 
nothing but swindlers and brigands in Italy, the third 
said that Italian officials are illiterate. 

“ ‘They are an ignorant people,’ said the first. 

‘Filthy,’ added the second. ‘Th ,’ exclaimed the 

third, meaning to say ‘thief,’ but he was suddenly 
interrupted and could not finish the word: a shower of 
pennies and ten-cent pieces dropped upon their heads 
and shoulders, and fell upon the table and the floor 
with a terrible clatter. The three men jumped up in 
a rage, raised their faces, and another handful of coins 
were flung in their faces. 

“‘Keep your pennies!’ said the boy, disdainfully, 
peeping his head out between the curtains of his berth; 
‘I don’t want assistance from people who insult my 
country.’ ’’ 


NOVEMBER 


THE CHIMNEY SWEEP 



Tuesday, the ist. 

In the afternoon, yes- 
terday, I went to the 
school house occupied by 
girls in our neighborhood 
to relate the story of the 
boy from Padua to Silvia’s 
teacher, who was anxious 
to look over it. Seven 
hundred girls belong to 
that school. The school 
was out when I arrived, 
all seemed content at the 
holiday of All Saints and 
All Souls ; and I have 
something nice to tell 
you which I saw : 
across from the door 
^ of the school, on the 
other corner of the 
street, stood a very 
small chimney- 
sweep, his face as 


32 


NOVEMBER 


33 


black as coal, with his bag and scraper, with one arm 
leaning against the wall, and his arm supporting 
his head, crying as if his heart would break. A few 
of the girls of the second grade approached him and 
said, “What is the cause of your tears?" But he 
answered them not and wept on. 

“Don’t be afraid, tell us why you cry in that man 
ner," the girls again asked. This time he raised 
from his arm his face, which looked like a child’s, and 
said through his tears he had swept several chim- 
neys and had made only thirty pennies, which he had 
lost, for they slid through a hole in his pocket — and he 
showed the torn part — and he had no courage to re- 
turn home without the money. 

“My boss will whip me," he said, sobbing; and 
again laid his head upon his arm, as in despair. The 
children stood gazing very seriously at him. By that 
time more girls, some large and some small, some poor 
and others wealthy, carrying their schoolbags under 
their arms, had come up ; and a large girl with a blue 
feather in her hat took two pennies out of her pocket, 
and said : 

“Why not start a collection? I only have two 
pennies." 

“I also have two pennies," said another girl in a red 
dress. “We can surely accumulate thirty pennies 
among us all;" then they called out: 

“Amalia! Luigia! Annina! — a penny. Who has 
pennies to contribute? Come over here with your 
pennies!" 

Most of the girls had pennies to buy flowers or copy- 
books, but willingly handed them over; the smaller 
girls gave but one penny, and the girl with the blue 


34 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


feather in her hat made the collection and counted 
them in a loud voice : 

“Eight, ten, fifteen!” But that was not enough. 
Then the eldest one, who seemed old enough to be an 
assistant teacher, came forth and contributed ten 
cents; all liked her very much. Five cents were still 
lacking. 

“The girls of the fourth class will soon be here, and 
will no doubt give it,” said one girl. The members 
of the fourth class came, and more pennies were given 
over. They eagerly rushed forward. How nice it 
was to see that poor chimney-sweep among all those 
different colored dresses, all that whirl of feathers, 
ribbons, and curls ! The thirty cents were soon gath- 
ered, and still it accumulated, and the smaller girls 
who had no money pushed ahead, giving him their 
bunches of flowers to show their willingness in giving 
something. Suddenly the janitors appeared, yell- 
ing: 

‘ ‘ The lady-principal ! ’ ’ The girls flew in every direc- 
tion, like a flock of sparrows ; and the little chimney- 
sweep was seen alone, in the middle of the street, 
drying his eyes, for he was perfectly content, for he 
had his hands full of money, and the buttonholes of 
his coat, his pockets, his hat, were full of flowers ; and 
the ground yvas even strewn with flowers at his feet. 


ALL-SOULS’ DAY 

Wednesday, the 2d. 

This day is set aside to the memory of the dead. 
Are you aware, Enrico, that all you boys should, on 
this day, think of those who are dead? Of those who 


NOVEMBER 


35 


have died for you, — for boys and children? How 
many have passed away and how many are passing 
away continually ! Have you ever thought how many 
fathers have worn out their existence in toil? How 
many mothers have gone to their graves in sorrow 
before their time, exhausted by the privations to 
which they usually condemn themselves for the sake 
of supporting their children? Do you know how many 
men have thrust a blade in their hearts in despair in 
seeing their children in misery? How many women 
have drowned themselves or have died of grief or have 
gone crazy because they have lost a child? Think of 
all these dead, today, Enrico. Think of how many 
have died young, have worn away through the fatigue 
of the school, through love for the children, from 
whom they had not the heart to part; think of the 
physicians who have fallen victims of contagious 
diseases, having bravely sacrificed their lives to cure 
the little ones; think of all those who, in shipwrecks, 
in conflagrations, in famines, in moments of supreme 
danger, have yielded to infancy the last bite of bread, 
the last place of safety, the last rope of escape from 
the flames, to die content with their sacrifice, because 
they had spared a little innocent life. Such dead as 
these are numberless, Enrico; every cemetery con- 
tains hundreds of these sacred creatures, who, if they 
could rise for an instant from their tombs, would utter 
the name of a child to whom they sacrificed the pleas- 
ures of youth, the peace of old age, their affections, 
their intelligence, their life: wives of twenty, men in 
the prime of youth, octogenarians, youths, — brave and 
unknown martyrs of infancy, — so grand and, so noble, 
that more flowers than the earth can produce should 
strew their graves. To such a degree are you loved. 


36 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


dear children! Think today of all those dead, with 
gratitude, and you will feel kinder and more affection- 
ate towards all those who love you, who work for you, 
my dear and lucky son, who, on All- Souls’ Day have 
not yet any one to grieve for. Your Mother. 


MY COMPANION GARRONE 

Friday, the 4th. 

Just two days of vacation, yet it seemed to me as 
though I had not seen Garrone for a long time. The 
longer I know him the more I like him; and also with 
all the rest, except with the ugly-natured boys, who 
have nothing to say to him, because he allows no one 
to get the better of him. Every time that a big boy 
beats the little ones, they shout, ‘^Garrone!” and the 
big one of course stops striking him. His father is an 
engineer on the railway ; on account of his illness for 
two years he was late in starting his course of studies. 
He is the tallest and the strongest of the class ; he even 
lifts a bench with one hand; he never quits eating; 
and he is kind. No matter what we ask him for, — a 
pencil, rubber, paper, or penknife, — he gives it at 
once ; and he never whispers or makes fun in school ; 
he behaves very well in his seat, which is far too nar- 
row for him, with his spine bent forward, and his big 
head between his shoulders. I never look at him but 
that he is smiling with his eyes half closed, as much 
AS to say, “Well, Enrico, are we friends?” He always 
makes me laugh, for he is tall and broad, he has out- 
grown his jacket, trousers, and his coat sleeves are far 
too short, and a cap that does not fit his head; a worn- 
out cloak, coarse shoes; and a tie which he always 





THEN NOBIS' FATHER OFFERED HIS HAND TO THE COAL-MAN. WHO 


GRASPED IT HEARTILY 


• ^ 



NOVEMBER 


37 


wears wound around his neck like a cord. Dear 
Garrone! One wants but a glance on your face to 
inspire love for you. The little boys would all like to 
sit near his desk. He is very good in arithmetic. His 
books he carries bound together with a red leather 
strap. He has a mother-of-pearl handled knife, which 
he picked up last year in the field used for military 
manoeuvres, and one day he cut his finger to the bone 
with it ; but not one in school heard about it, and no 
one tells about it at home, because they fear to alarm 
his parents. We can say anything to him jokingly, 
for he never gets angry, but let any one beware who 
says to him, “That is not true.” When he asserts 
something his eyes flash fire, and his blows which he 
hammers with his clenched fist on the desk are strong 
enough to split it. Saturday morning he gave a penny 
to a boy of the higher grades, who was crying in the 
middle of the street, because his own had been taken 
from him, and he could not buy his copy-book. He 
has been working for the last three days over an eight- 
page letter containing pen and ink illustrations on its 
margin, for his mother’s Saints’ Day. She generally 
comes to get him, and is, like himself, tall, large and 
kind. The teacher is always glancing at him, and 
every time that he passes near him he fondly lays his 
hand on his neck, as though he were a young tame 
bull. I am very fond of him, and am never happier 
than when I hold his hand, which is as large as the 
hand of a man. He would undoubtedly risk his own 
life to save that of a comrade, and he would let him- 
self be killed in his defense, so clearly can I read him ; 
and although he always seems to be grumbling with 
that big voice of his, still one feels that it is a voice 
which comes from a good heart. 


38 A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL . 

THE POOR COALMAN AND THE WEALTHY 
MAN 

Monday, the 7th. 

Garrone would never have uttered the words which 
Carlo Nobis spoke yesterday morning to Betti. Carlo 
Nobis is proud, because his father is very well-to-do. 
The latter is a tall man, with a black beard, and 

accompanies his son to 
school nearly every day. 
Nobis quarreled yesterday 
morning with the coal- 
man’s son, Betti, who is 
one of the smallest boys 
in school, and not know- 
ing what else to say, being 
in the wrong, said to him 
loudly, “Your father is a 
ragged beggar ! ’ ’ Betti, 
blushing to the roots of his 
hair, said nothing, but his 
eyes filled with tears, and 
upon returning home re- 
peated the words to his 
father. The coal-dealer, 
who was a little man, 
with black all over his 
face and hands, went to 
the afternoon session, 
leading his boy by the hand, so as to complain to the 
teacher. Suddenly, while the complaint was being 
made, and all were silently listening. Nobis’ father, 
who was helping his son off with his coat as usual at 
the door, entered on hearing his name pronounced, 
and demanded an explanation. 



NOVEMBER 


39 


“This workman has come,” said the teacher, “to 
complain of your son Carlo, who said to his boy, ‘Your 
father is a ragged beggar. ’ ' ’ 

Frowning and slightly blushing. Nobis’ father 
looked at his son, and asked him if he had said that. 

His son stood with head bent forward, in the middle 
of the room in front of little Betti, and made no 
reply. 

Then his father, taking hold of his arm, pushed him 
so near Betti that they nearly touched, and told him to 
“ask his pardon.” 

The coalman wanted to interrupt, saying, “No, no!” 
but Nobis’ father pretended not to hear him, and again 
said to his son, “Ask his pardon. Repeat what I say 
— ‘I ask pardon for the insulting, foolish and unkind 
words which I allowed myself to say against your 
father. My father would feel himself highly honored 
to shake hands with you.’ ” The coalman made a 
quick motion, as if to say, “I will not permit it.” 

Nobis’ father took no notice of him, and his son said 
slowly, with a voice which could hardly be heard, not 
even raising his eyes from the ground, “I ask your 
pardon — for the insulting — foolish — unkind — words 
which I allowed myself to say against your father. My 
father — would feel highly honored to shake hands 
with you. ’ ’ 

Then Nobis’ father offered his hand to the coalman, 
who grasped it heartily, and suddenly he pushed his 
son into little Betti’s arms. 

“You will oblige me very much by placing them 
next to each other,” said Nobis’ father to the teacher. 

The teacher put Betti next to Nobis’ seat. They 
had just seated themselves when the father of Nobis 
bowed and went away. 


40 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


The coalman still stood there in thought for several 
moments, gazing at the two boys side by side ; then he 
approached the bench, and fixed upon Nobis a look of 
affection and regret. He seemed as though he wanted 
to tell him something, but he did not utter a word ; he 
stretched out his hand to smooth his hair fondly, but 
he did not dare, and only stroked his forehead with his 
big fingers. Then he turned to the door, and after 
giving a last look, he disappeared. 

“Remember what you have just seen,” said the 
teacher; “this is the best lesson that you have had this 
year. ’ ' 


MY BROTHER’S TEACHER 

Thursday, the loth. 

The coalman’s son had once been a pupil of that 
teacher, Delcati, who has come today to see my sick 
brother. She amused us by relating how, two years 
before, the mother of this boy had brought to her 
house a big apronful of coal, to show her gratitude for 
having given the medal to her son. The good woman 
persisted in leaving it; but when told she would have 
to take it away again she almost cried. She told us, 
also, about another good woman, who brought her a 
very heavy bunch of flowers, the inside of which was 
filled with pennies. These stories amused us very 
much, especially my little sick brother, who swallowed 
his medicine without grumbling, something he had 
never done before. One needs a great deal of patience 
with those children of the lower grade who like old 
men have no teeth and cannot pronounce their r’s and 
s’s; one coughs, another has the nosebleed, another 
cannot find his shoes under the desk. The one cries 
because he has pricked himself with his pen, and 



HE TOOK THE BUNCHES AND CARRIED THEM INTO HIS FATHER’S 


STORE 


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NOVEMBER 


41 


another one is cross because he has bought copy -book 
No. 2 in stead of No. i. Fifty of them in a class, and 
not one knows anything; with their tiny hands they 
must learn to write. In 
their pockets they carry 
pieces of licorice, but- 
tons, bottle corks, brick- 
dust and many more 
little things for which 
the teacher has to search 
them; but they hide 
these things even in 
their shoes. They are 
never attentive. If a 
fly enters through the 
window, it throws them 
all into confusion ; in 
summer they bring 
grass to school, also 
horn-bugs, which fly 
around and around, fall 
into the ink-well, and 
then smear the copy- 
books all over with ink. 

The teacher has to play 
mother to them all. She 
helps them to dress 
themselves, bandages 
their sore fingers, picks 
up their caps when they 

drop them, sees that they do not exchange coats, or 
else they will cry and shriek. Poor teachers! The 
mothers often come to complain: “How is it, Miss, 
that my son has lost his pen? Why is it that mine 



42 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


learns nothing? My boy is not honorably mentioned, 
still he knows so much! You ought to have that 
nail which tore my Piero’s trousers taken out of the 
desk.” 

My brother’s teacher sometimes gets real angry 
with the boys; and when she cannot stand it any 
longer, she bites her fingers so as to keep herself from 
hitting one of them. She loses her patience, but 
quickly feels sorry, and caresses the child she scolded; 
sends a little scamp out of school, swallows her tears, 
and flies into a rage with parents who compel their 
children to fast as a punishment. Miss Delcati is 
young, tall, dark complected, and is always finely 
dressed. She is very nervous, easily annoyed and irri- 
tated, and at such times she speaks very gently. 

“The children ought to be real fond of you,’’ my 
mother said to her. 

“Many are,’’ she replied; “but at the end of the 
school year most of them hardly look at us any more. 
When they are with the male teachers, they feel 
ashamed of having been with women teachers. After 
two years of cares, after having loved a child so 
dearly, it saddens us to part from him ; but we say, 
“Oh, I can rely on that one, for he will always love 
me.’’ But as soon as the vacation is over, and he 
comes back to school, I run to him exclaiming: ‘Oh, 
my child, my child!’ He turns his head the other 
way.’’ The teacher here stopped and said, “You will 
act differently, won’t you, my child?’’ She raised her 
tear-stained eyes, and kissing my brother, added, “You 
will not turn your head aside and not look at your poor 
old friend?’’ 


NOVEMBER 


43 


MY MOTHER 

Thursday, the loth. 

You were disrespectful to your mother in the pres- 
ence of your brother’s teacher. This must never hap- 
pen again, my Enrico, never again! Your irreverent 
word went through my heart like a steel blade. I 
thought of your mother when, years ago, she staid one 
night long over your little bed watching your breath- 
ing, crying des- 
perately in her 
sorrow, her teeth 
chattering with 
terror, because she 
thought she would 
lose you. I feared 
that she would go 
crazy; and I had 
a feeling of horror 
at you. You, of- 
fended your moth- 
er ! your mother 
would give up a 
year of her happi- 
ness to spare you one hour of sorrow, would beg for 
you, and would let herself be killed to save your life! 
Listen, Enrico. Preserve this well in your memory. 
Remember that you will experience many terrible days 
in the course of your life; your greatest trouble will be 
your mother’s loss. Many, many times, Enrico, after 
you area man, strong and used to all the world’s ways, 
you will be oppressed with desire to hear her voice, if 
only for a moment, and to see again her open arms, 
into which you can throw yourself sobbing, like a 



44 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


poor child without comfort and protection. Then you 
will remember all the bitterness that you have caused 
her, and with what remorse will you pay for all, 
unhappy child ! Hope for no peace in your life, if you 
have caused your mother pain. You will be sorry, 
will beg her forgiveness, will worship her memory — in 
vain ; your conscience will give you no peace ; that 
sweet and gentle image will always be for you an 
expression of sadness and of reproach which will tor- 
ture your soul. Oh, Enrico, take care; this is the 
most sacred of human affections; unhappy he who 
tramples upon it! The murderer who respects his 
mother has still some honesty and nobility left in his 
heart; the most renowned of men who grieves and 
offends her is but a vile creature. Do not again utter 
a mean word to her who gave you life, and should one 
ever escape you, let it not be the fear of your father, 
but let it be the impulse of your soul, which casts you 
at her. feet to implore her to cancel from your brow, 
with the kiss of forgiveness, the stain of ingratitude. 
I adore you, my son; you are the dearest hope of my 
life, but I would rather see you dead than ungrateful 
to your mother. Go away, for awhile, and do not 
offer to caress me, for I should be unable to appre- 
ciate it. 


MY SCHOOLMATE CORETTI 

Sunday, the 13th. 

My father forgave me ; still I was sad. Then my 
mother sent me, with the janitor’s eldest son, to take 
a walk on the Corso. As we were passing a wagon 
which was standing in front of a store, about half-way 
down the Corso, I heard some one call me by name. 


NOVEMBER 


45 


I turned around ; it was Coretti, my schoolmate, who 
wore his usual chocolate-colored knitted jacket and his 
catskin cap, all in a perspiration, but jolly. He had a 
big load of wood on his shoulders. Standing in the 
wagon, a man was handing him a bunch of wood at a 
time. He took the bunches and carried them into his 
father’s store, where he piled them up in a great hurry. 

“What are you doing, Coretti?” I asked him. 

“Don’t you see?” he replied, as he reached out his 
arms to get the load ; “I am going over my lesson.”^ 

I laughed ; but he was speaking in earnest, and hav- 
ing grasped the bunch of wood, he commenced to say 
as he ran, “The conjugation of the verb — consists in 
its variations according to the number — according to 
the number and the person ” 

And then, throwing down the wood and piling it, 
“according to the time — according to the time referred 
by the action. ” 

And turning to the wagon for another bunch, 
“according to the mood in which the action is enunci- 
ated. ’ ’ 

It was our grammar lesson for the succeeding day. 
“Well?” he said, “I am putting my time to use. My 
father has gone out with the errand-man on business ; 
my mother is ill ; so I have to do the unloading. At 
the same time, I am going over my grammar lesson. 
It is a hard lesson today. I cannot succeed in driving 
it into my head. — My father said that he would be 
back at seven o'clock to pay you,” he said to the driver 
of the wagon. 

The wagon drove off. “Come into the store a min- 
ute,” Coretti said to me. I went in. It was a large 
room, full of piles of wood and fagots, with a scale on 
one side. 


46 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


“There is a lot of work to be done today, I can 
assure you,” resumed Coretti ; ‘‘I must do my work by 
fits and starts. I was writing my task when some 
people came in to buy. I went to my writing again, 
and that wagon arrived. This morning I have already 
been twice to the wood market in Piazza Venezia. 
Now, I can hardly stand on my legs, and my hands 
are all swollen. I would be in a nice fix if I had to 
draw!” And as he spoke he was sweeping up the dry 
leaves and the straw which covered the stone floor. 

“But where do you do your work, Coretti!” I asked 
him. 

“Not here, of course,” he replied. “Come and 
see;” and he led me into a little room in the rear of 
the store, which serves as a kitchen and dining-room, 
with a table in one corner, on which he had his books 
and copy-books, and the work had been commenced. 

“Look here,” he said; “I left the second answer in 
the air: ‘From leather one can make shoes, belts . . .’ 
Now I will add, ‘satchels.’ ” And taking his pen he 
commenced to write in his fine handwriting. 

“Is any one in?” some one shouted from the store. 
It was a woman who wanted to buy some small fagots. 

“Here I am!” replied Coretti. He sprang out, 
weighed the fagots, took the money, ran to a corner 
to mark the sale in a shabby old cash-book, and 
returned to his work, saying: “Let’s see if I can com- 
plete that sentence.” And he wrote, “traveling 
satchels, and knapsacks for soldiers.” “Well, my 
poor coffee is boiling over!” he exclaimed, and ran to 
the stove to take the coffee-pot from the fire. “This 
coffee is for mamma,” he said; “I had to learn how to 
make it. Wait a minute, and we will bring it to her; 
you will see how pleased she will be. She has laid in 


NOVEMBER 


47 


bed a whole week.— Conjugation of the verb! I 
always scald my hands with this coffee-pot. What can 
I add after the soldiers’ knapsacks? Something else 
is needed, and I cannot think of anything. Come to 
my mamma. ” 

Coretti opened a door, and we entered another room ; 
there his mother was confined in a large bed, with a 
handkerchief tied around her head. 

“Ah, the nice little gentleman!” said the woman to 
me; you have come to see the sick, have you not?” 

In the meantime, Coretti was propping up the pil- 
lows behind his mother’s back, rearranging the bed- 
clothes, poking up the fire, and chasing the cat off the 
chest of drawers. 

“Is there anything else I can do for you, mamma?” 
he asked, taking the cup from her. “Have you taken 
the two spoonfuls of syrup? When it is used up, I will 
make a trip to the drug store. The wood is unloaded. 
At four o’clock I will cook the meat, as you told me ; 
and when the butter-woman passes, I will give her 
those eight cents. Everything will be all right; so 
don’t worry.” 

“Thanks, my son!” replied the woman. “Go, my 
poor boy! — he remembers everything.” 

She insisted that I should take a lump of sugar; and 
then Coretti showed me a little picture, — a photograph 
which represented a picture of his father dressed in a 
soldier’s suit, with the medal for bravery which he had 
won in 1866, in the army of Prince Umberto: he 
resembled his son with the same mischievous eyes and 
his happy smile. 

We went back to the kitchen. “I have found the 
other article which one can make from leather,” said 
Coretti; and he added on his copy-book, “horse-trap- 


48 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


pings are also made of it.” ‘‘I will finish tonight; I 
will stay up late tonight. How content you are, to 
have time to study and to go to walk, too!” And still 
gay and active, he returned to the shop, and began to 
pile pieces of wood on the horse and to saw them, say- 
ing: ‘‘This is gymnastics; it is quite different from the 
‘thrust your arms forwards.’ I want my father to 
know that I have sawed the wood by the same time he 
returns home ; it will make him happy. The funny 
part of it all is, after I get through sawing, I make T’s 
and L’s which look more like snakes, so my teacher 
says. What am I to do? I will tell him that I have 
to use my arms. What I think most of is that my 
mamma will get well soon. She is better today, 
thank heaven ! I will study my grammar to-morrow 
morning, when the cock begins to crow. Oh, there 
is the wagon with more wood! To work!” 

A small wagon filled with wood stopped in front of 
the store. Coretti ran out to speak to the man, then 
came back. ‘‘I can’t stay with you any longer, now,” 
he said; ‘‘Good-bye, we will meet tomorrow. I am 
glad you came to see me. A pleasant walk to you, 
fortunate fellow!” 

And shaking hands with me, he ran to take the first 
piece of wood, and began once more to run back and 
forth between the wagon and the store, with a face 
blooming like a rose beneath his catskin cap, and so 
lively that it was a pleasure to see him. 

‘‘Fortunate fellow!” he had said to me. Ah, no, 
Coretti, no ; you are more content, because you study 
and work too; because you are a good help to your 
father and your mother; because you are better — a 
hundred times better — and braver than I, my dear 
classmate. 


K 



THIS BOY WAS THE PICTURE OF HIS DEAD SON 






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NOVEMBER 


49 


THE PRINCIPAL 

Friday, the i8th. 

Coretti was happy this morning, because his teacher 
of the second grade, Coatti, who is a big man, with a 
large head of curly hair, a long black beard, big black 
eyes and a thunder-like voice, had come to help in the 
monthly examination work. He always threatens the 
boys that he will inflict terrible punishment upon 
them, and carry them by the nape of the neck to the 
police-station, making all the time all sorts of terrible 
faces ; but he has not the heart to punish any one, and 
smiles throughout it behind his beard, so that no one 
can see it. There are eight male teachers in all, 
including Coatti, and a little, clean-shaven assistant, 
who looks like a boy. A teacher of the fourth grade 
is lame and always has a big woolen scarf wound 
around him, and is always suffering from pains which 
he got when he was a teacher in a damp country 
school, where the walls were covered with mold. 
Another teacher of the fourth grade is a white-haired 
old man, and was once a teacher of the blind. There 
is a well-dressed teacher, with a blond moustache, 
wearing eye-glasses, whom they call the “little law- 
yer,” because, while teaching, he studied law and 
received his diploma; he is also writing a book to 
teach letter-writing. The one who teaches us gym- 
nastics carries himself like a soldier, having been with 
Garibaldi, and has on his neck a scar from a wound 
which he received at the battle of Milazzo. Then 
there is the principal, who is tall and bald-headed, and 
wears gold spectacles, with a gray beard reaching 
down upon his chest ; he dresses entirely in black, and 
buttoned up to the chin. He is so good to the boys. 


50 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


and when they enter his room, trembling because they 
have been summoned to receive a scolding, he does 
not reproach them, but takes them by the hand, and 
tells them so many reasons why they ought not to 
behave so, and why they should feel sorry, and prom- 
ise to be good, and he convinces them in such a kind 
way, and in such a gentle voice, that they all leave his 

room with red 
eyes, and more 
confused than if 
they had been 
punished. Poor 
teacher! In the 
morning he is al- 
ways the first per- 
son to arrive, wait- 
ing for the pupils, 
and listening to 
the parents ; and 
when the other 
teachers are on 
their way home, 
he still lingers 
about the school, 
and sees that the 
boys do not get run over, or hang about the streets 
standing on their heads, or fill their school-bags with 
sand or stones ; and the moment his tall, dark figure 
turns a corner, crowds of boys run off in all directions, 
quitting their games of coppers and marbles, and he 
threatens them from a distance with his forefinger and 
with his sad and, loving countenance. Mother says that 
he has never smiled since the death of his son, who was 
a volunteer in the army, and he always keeps his son’s 



NOVEMBER 


51 


picture before his eyes, on the desk in his room. He 
would have sent in his resignation, which he kept ready 
on his desk, to the Municipal Council after this loss, had 
he not felt sorry to leave the boys. He seemed unde- 
cided the other day, and my father, who was visiting 
him, was just saying to him, “It is too bad that you 
are going to leave!" when a man came in to enter the 
name of a boy who was to be transferred from another 
school to ours, because he had changed his residence. 
At the sight of this boy, the principal gazed in aston- 
ishment, stared at him for awhile, then at his son’s 
portrait on his desk, stared at the boy again, then 
drew him between his knees, and made him hold up 
his head. This boy was the picture of his dead son. 
The principal said, “It is all right," inscribed his 
name, dismissed them both, and remained thinking 
deeply. “What a pity that you are going to leave!" 
repeated my father. Then the principal took up his 
resignation paper, tore it in two, and said, “I shall 
remain. " 


THE SOLDIERS 

Tuesday, the 2 2d. 

His son was enlisted as a volunteer in the army at 
the time of his death; this is the reason why the prin- 
cipal likes so much to go to the Corso to see the sol- 
diers pass, after school. A regiment of infantry was 
passing yesterday, and fifty boys were dancing around 
the band, singing and beating time with their rulers 
on their school-bags and portfolios. We stood in a 
group on the sidewalk, watching them; Garrone, 
squeezed into his clothes, which were altogether too 
tight for him, was eating a big piece of bread; Votini, 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


52 

the boy who is very particular about his clothes, and 
who is always picking the hairs from his coat ; Pre- 
cossi, the son of the blacksmith, with his father’s coat ; 
and the Calabrian; and the “young mason”; and 
Crossi, with his redhead; and Franti, bold as ever; 
and Robetti, also, the son of the captain of artillery, 
the boy who has to walk on crutches because he saved 
the child from the omnibus. Franti burst into a 
mocking laugh, in the face of a soldier who seemed to 
have a sore foot. But suddenly he felt a man’s hand 
on his shoulder: he turned around; it was the prin- 
cipal who told him: “Take care; making fun of a sol- 
dier when he is in the ranks, and when he can neither 
avenge himself nor reply, is like insulting a man who 
is bound; it is cowardly. ” 

Franti made his escape. The soldiers were march- 
ing by fours, perspiring and covered with dust, their 
guns gleaming in the sun. The principal said : 

“Boys, you ought to love the soldiers, who are our 
defenders, and who would go to war tomorrow and be 
killed for our sakes, were a foreign army to menace 
our country. They also are boys not much older than 
you ; and they, too, go to school ; and there are rich 
and poor men among them, just as there are among 
you, and they come from all parts of Italy. They can 
be distinguished by their faces ; Sicilians, Sardinians, 
Neapolitans, and Lombards are going by. This is an 
old regiment, one of those which fought in 1848. But 
they are not the same soldiers, still the flag is the 
same. How many soldiers have died for our country 
around that flag twenty years before you were 
born V ’ 

“Here it comes!” said Garrone. And in fact, the 
flag was seen advancing, above the soldiers’ heads. 



THE REGIMENTAL BAND Sl'RROUNDED BY A CROWD OP’ BOVS 



NOVEMBER 


53 


The principal said: “Now, my sons, make your 
scholars’ salute with your forehead when the tricolor 
goes by. ’ ’ 

Carried by an officer, the flag, ragged and faded, 
with medals hung on its staff, passed before us. We 
put our hands to our foreheads, all together. The 
officer returned our salute smilingly. > 

“Well done, boys!” said a voice behind us. Turn- 
ing we saw an old man who wore in his button-hole 
the blue ribbon of the Crimean campaign. He was a 
pensioned officer. “Well done!” he said; “you have 
acted nobly. ’ ’ 

In the meantime, the regimental band had turned 
the end of the Corso, surrounded by a crowd of boys, 
whose merry shouts accompanied the blasts of the 
trumpets, sounding like a war-soiig. 

“Well done!” repeated the old officer, looking at 
us; “a boy who respects the flag of his country, will 
defend it when he is a man.” 


NELLFS PROTECTOR 

Wednesday, the 23d. 

Nelli, the poor little hunchback, was looking at the 
soldiers yesterday, but with a sad face as though 
thinking, “I can never be a soldier!” He is good, and 
studious, but is so small and thin, and breathes with 
difficulty. He always wears a long apron of shining 
black cloth. His mother is a little blond woman 
dressed in black, and always comes for him at the end 
of school, so as to avoid the rush with the others, and 
she caresses him. The boys used to ridicule him at 
first, and pound him on the back with their bags. 


54 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


because of his unfortunate condition; but he never 
tried to defend himself, and never told his mother 
about it, so as not to break her heart which would 
surely have happened had he told her that he was the 
laughing-stock of his school friends; they scornfully 
mocked him, but he was silent and wept, with his head 
laid against the desk. 

At last one morning Garrone jumped up, exclaim- 
ing: “The first person who touches Nelli will get his 
ears boxed so badly from me that he will spin around 
three times!” 

But Franti paying no attention to his threat got the 
box on the ear, and spun three times, and from that 
time on no one ever touched Nelli again. The teacher 
put Garrone next to Nelli and now they are friends. 
Nelli has grown so fond of Garrone that as soon as he 
enters the schoolroom he looks around for Garrone. 
He never goes away without saying, “Good-bye, Gar- 
rone,” and Garrone does the same with him. 

If Nelli drops a pen or a book under the desk, Gar- 
rone stoops quickly in order to avoid his companion 
from stooping and tiring himself, and hands him his 
book or his pen, and then he helps him to put his 
things in his bag and helps him on with his coat. 
No wonder Nelli loves him* and always gazes at him ; 
and when the teacher praises Garrone he is as pleased 
as if he had been praised instead. Nelli must at last 
have told his mother all about the boys mocking him 
in the early days, and of his sufferings from it; and 
about the good fellow who defended him, and how he 
had grown fond of him, for the following occurred this 
morning. The teacher had sent me with the program 
of our lessons to give to the principal, half an hour 
before the close of school, and I entered the office 


NOVEMBER 


55 


simultaneously with a small blond woman dressed in 
black, Nelli’s mother, who said, “Mr. Principal, is 
there in my son’s class a boy called Garrone?” 

“Yes,” replied the principal. 

“Will you kindly have him come here for a moment, 
as I have something to say to him?” 

The principal 
called the janitor 
and sent him to 
Garrone’ s room, 
and after a min- 
ute the boy with 
his big, close- 
cropped head, 
appeared in the 
door- way, in per- 
fect amazement. 

The woman no 
sooner caught 
sight of him than 
she ran and threw 
her arms around 
his neck, and 
kissed him a great 
many times on 
the head, say- 
ing: 

“You are Garrone, my poor little son’s friend and 
protector; it is you, my dear, brave boy; it is you!” 
Then she searched hastily in all her pockets, in her 
purse, and finding nothing, she took from her neck a 
chain with a small cross attached to it, and put it 
around Garonne’s neck, underneath his necktie, and 
said to him : , 



A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


56 

“^Take it! Wear it in memory of Nelli’s mother, 
who thanks and blesses you.” 

THE FOREMOST IN THE CLASS 

Friday, the 25 th. 

Garrone is beloved by all, and Derossi is beloved 
too. He has always won the first medal; I think he 
also will win it this year; no one can beat him; all 
recognize his superiority in all points. He excels all 
in arithmetic, grammar, composition and drawing; he 
is as quick as a flash, with a wonderful memory; it is 
no effort for him to succeed in everything, and study 
seems like play to him. The teacher said to him 
yesterday : 

‘‘God has bestowed on you great talent, and I advise 
you not to squander it. ” He is also tall and handsome, 
with a mass of golden curls; he is so quick that he 
leaps over a bench by resting one hand on it; and he 
is good at fencing. He is twelve years old, and the 
son of a business-man ; his mother always dresses him 
in blue with gilt buttons. He is always quick, jolly, 
and gentle to all, and lends a hand to all in examina- 
tion, and no one has ever dared to ill-treat him, or to 
say an unkind word to him. Nobis and Franti alone 
look ill wonder at him, and Votini shows jealousy by 
his eyes; but he makes believe he does not see them. 
All smile at him, and take his hand or his arm, when 
he goes around very naturally to collect the work. He 
is very generous, for he gives away illustrated papers, 
drawings, and everything that is given him at home; 
he drew a little geographical chart of Calabria for the 
Calabrian boy; and he gives generously with a smile, 
without paying any heed to it, like a lord and with 


NOVEMBER 


57 


partiality toward none. Why shouldn’t we envy him, 
not to feel inferior than he in everything? Ah ! I envy 
him, too, like Votini. Sometimes I feel a bitterness, 
almost contempt, for him, when I am working hard to 
finish my work at home, and think that he has already 
finished his at this same moment, very well, and with- 
out trouble. But on my return to school, I see his 
handsome, smiling, tiiumphant face, and hear how 
frankly and certain he replies to the teacher’s ques- 
tions, how courteous he is, and how the others all like 
liim, then all bitterness, all contempt vanish from my 
heart, and I feel guilty of having cultivated these 
sentiments in my mind. I would feel happy never to 
be away from him at such times; I should like to be 
able to do all my school tasks with him ; his presence 
and voice fill me with courage, with a willingness to 
work, with cheerfulness and pleasure. 

The teacher assigned him to copy the monthly story, 
which will be read tomorrow, — “The Young Scout of 
Lombardy.’’ He rewrote it this morning, and took it 
so much to heart about that heroic deed, that his face 
was scarlet, his eyes filled with tears, and his lips 
quivered; and as I looked upon him his face appeared 
to me handsome and noble. I would with great 
pleasure and frankness say, “Derossi, you are far 
above me in everything! You are a man compared to 
me! I respect you and I admire you!’’ 


58 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


THE YOUNG SCOUT OF LOMBARDY 



(THE MONTHLY STORY) 


Saturday, the 26th. 
In the year 1859, dur- 
ing the war for the lib- 
eration of Lombardy, 
a few days after the battle of Solferino and San 
Martino, won by the French and Italians over the 
Austrians, on a lovely morning in the month of June, a 
little band of Saluzzo cavalry was advancing slowly 
along a lonely road, in the direction of the enemy, and 
exploring the country attentively. The squad was 
commanded by an officer and a sergeant, and all were 
staring fixedly and silently into the distance ahead of 
them, and ready at any moment to perceive the uni- 
forms of the enemy’s advance-posts gleam white before 
them amidst the trees. They arrived in this way at a 
rustic cabin, surrounded by ash-trees, before which 
stood a twelve-year old boy all alone removing with a 
penknife the bark from a small branch to make a stick 
of it. From a window of the little house waved a 


NOVEMBER 


59 


large tri-colored flag. There was no one inside, the 
peasants having fled, after putting up the flag, for fear 
of the Austrians. The boy no sooner saw the cavalry 
than he threw aside his stick and raised his cap. He 
was a handsome blue-eyed and golden-haired boy, had 
a bright face, and was in his shirt-sleeves with his 
chest bare. 

“What are you doing here?” the officer asked him, 
stopping his horse. “Why did you not run away from 
here with your family?” 

“I have no family,” the boy answered. “I am a 
waif, and do a little work for everybody. I staid here 
to see the war. ” 

“Have any Austrians passed here?” 

“No; not for the past three days.” 

After having paused thoughtfully for awhile, the 
officer leaped from his horse, leaving his soldiers there, 
with their faces turned towards the enemy, entered the 
house and ascended to the roof. The house being low, 
only a small tract of country was visible from the roof. 
“We will have to climb the trees,” the officer said, 
descending. In front of the garden was a very tall 
and slender ash-tree which was swinging its top in the 
sky. The officer once more remained in thought, 
looking now at the tree, and then at the soldiers ; then 
he suddenly asked the lad : 

“Here, you rogue, is your eyesight good?” 

“Mine?” replied the boy. “I can see a little spar- 
row a mile away. ’ ’ 

“Do you know how to climb to the top of this tree?” 

“Do I know how? Why, I’ll climb up there in a 
minute.” 

“And do you think you will be able to tell me what 
you see from up there, whether there are in that 


6o 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 



direction Austrian soldiers, clouds of dust, guns or 
horses?” 

“I certainly will.” 

‘‘What compensation do you ask for this service?” 
‘‘What do I want?” said the lad, smiling. ‘‘Noth- 
ing, indeed! And then — were I to do it for the Ger- 
mans, I would never 
consent — no not for any 
price — but as it is for 
our soldiers, well, I am 
a Lombard!” 

‘‘Very good; then 
climb up. ’ ’ 

‘‘Just a minute, until 
I take off my shoes.” 

He took off his shoes, 
tightened the belt of 
his trousers, threw his 
cap on the grass, and 
grabbed hold of the 
flunk of the ash- 
tree. 

‘‘Be careful!” 
exclaimed the 
officer, rushing 
forward to hold 
him back, a sud- 


den terror having seized him. 

The boy looked around at him, with his handsome 
blue eyes, as if to interrogate him. 

‘‘It’s all right,” said the officer; ‘‘go up.” 

The lad went up like a cat. 

‘‘Keep your eyes in that direction!” shouted the 
officer to the soldiers. 


NOVEMBER 


6i 

In no time the boy climbed to the top of the tree, 
twined around the trunk, with his legs among the 
leaves, but his figure could plainly be seen, and his 
head shone like a mass of gold from the glistening 
sun. He seemed so small up there that the officer 
could hardly see him. 

“Look ahead and as far as you can see!” yelled the 
officer. 

So as to see better, the lad removed his right hand 
from the tree, shading his eyes with it. 

“What do you see?” asked the officer. 

The boy leaned his head forward, and making a 
trumpet of his hand, replied, “Two men on horse- 
back, on the white road.” 

“How far from here?” 

“Half a mile.” 

“Are they moving?” 

“They are standing still.” 

“Do you see anything else?” asked the officer, after 
a moment’s silence. “Look to your right. ” The boy 
obeyed. 

Then he said: “Something is shining among the 
trees, near the cemetery, and it seems to be bayonets.” 

“Do you see men?” 

“No.- They are surely hiding in the grain. 

Just on the minute a sharp whiz of a bullet passed 
high up in the air and died away in the distance, 
behind the house. 

“Come down, my boy!” yelled the officer. “They 
have spied you. I don’t want anything more. Come 
down. ” 

“I’m not afraid,” replied the boy. 

“Come down!” repeated the officer. “What else do 
you see to the left?” 


62 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


“To the left?” 

“Yes, to the left. ” 

The boy turned his head to the left; at that moment 
another whistle lower and better aim than the first, 
cut the air. The boy was thoroughly aroused. 
“Deuce take them!” he exclaimed. “They actually 
are aiming at me!” The bullet had passed at a short 
distance from him. 

“Down!” yelled the officer in an angry and com- 
manding voice. 

“I’ll come down in a minute,” replied the boy. 
“The tree shelters me, and there is no danger. You 
want to know what there is on the left?” 

“Yes, on the left,” answered the officer; “but come 
down. ’ ’ 

“On the left,” shouted the boy, thrusting his body 
out in that direction, “yonder, where there is a chapel, 
I think I see ” 

A third fierce whistle passed through the air, and 
almost on the instant the boy was seen to descend, 
grabbing for a moment the trunk and branches, and 
falling headlong with outstretched arms. 

“Curse it!” exclaimed the officer, running up. 

The boy fell to the ground and lay there upon his 
back, with wide-opened arms ; a stream of blood flowed 
from his breast, on the left. The sergeant and two 
soldiers sprang from their horses; the officer bent 
over and opened his shirt ; the ball had entered his left 
lung. “He is dead!” exclaimed the officer. 

“No, he is not dead!” replied the sergeant. “Ah, 
poor boy! brave boy!” cried the officer. “Courage, 
courage!” But while saying this he was pressing his 
handkerchief to the wound, the boy rolled his eyes 
wildly and dropped his head back. He was dead. 


NOVEMBER 


63 


The officer became livid and stood gazing at him ; then 
laying him down carefully on his cloak upon the grass, 
he arose and stood looking at him. The sergeant and 
two soldiers also were gazing upo;i him, and the rest 
were looking towards the enemy. 

“Poor boy!” repeated the officer. “Poor, brave 
boy!” 

Then approaching the house, and taking the tricolor 
down from the window, he spread it over the corpse 
like a shroud, leaving the face uncovered. The 
sergeant collected the dead boy’s shoes, cap, his little 
stick, and penknife, and placed them beside him. 

They stood a few moments longer in silence ; then 
the officer, turning to the sergeant, said, “We will 
send the ambulance for him, for he died as a soldier, 
and the soldiers shall bury him. ’ ' This said, he kissed 
his hand to the dead boy, and shouted, “To horse!” 

All leaped into their saddles, the troop drew 
together and vanished down the road. 

And not many hours after the little dead boy 
received the honors of war. 

At the setting of the sun, the entire line of the 
Italian advance posts marched onward towards the 
foe, and along the same road which had been gone 
over in the morning by the detachment of cavalry, 
there proceeded, in two lines, a heavy battalion of 
sharpshooters, who, a few days before had valiantly 
covered the hill of San Martino with blood. All the 
soldiers had heard of the death of the boy before leav- 
ing their camp. On one side of the path was a little 
rivulet which ran a few feet distant from the house. 
When the first officers of the battalion caught sight of 
the little body stretched at the foot of the little ash- 
tree and covered with the tri -colored banner, they made 


64 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


the salute to it with their swords, and one of them 
leaned over the bank of the streamlet, which was cov- 
ered with flowers at that spot, plucked a few, and 
threw them on it. , Then all the sharpshooters, as 
they passed, did the same. The boy was soon cov- 
ered with flowers, and officers and soldiers all saluted 
him as they passed by: “Bravo, little Lombard!” 
“Farewell, my lad!” “I salute thee, gold locks!” 
“Hurrah!” “Glory!” “Farewell!” One officer 
tossed him his medal for valor, and another stooped 
and kissed his forehead. And they continued to throw 
flowers down on his bare feet, on his blood-stained 
breast, and on his golden head. And there he lay 
asleep on the grass, wrapped in his flag, with a white 
and almost smiling face, poor lad ! as though he heard 
these salutes and was happy to have given his life for 
his Lombardy. 

THE POOR 

Tuesday, the 29th. 

To give one’s life for one’s country as the Lombard 
boy did is worthy of praise ; but you must not neglect 
the lesser virtues, my son. This morning, as you 
walked in front of me, when we were returning from 
school, you passed by a needy woman who held 
between her knees a thin, pale child, and who asked 
for help of you. You passed her without giving any- 
thing, and you know you had pennies in your pocket. 
Let me tell you, my son. Do not get yourself into the 
habit of passing indifferently the unfortunate who 
stretch out their hands to you, and even more when a 
mother asks a penny for her child. Think that the 
child may be hungry ; think of the misery of that poor 


NOVEMBER 


65 



woman. Imagine to yourself the tears of despair of 
your mother, if she were some day compelled to say, 
“Enrico, I cannot give you any bread even today!” 
When I give a penny to a beggar, and he says to me, 
“God preserve your health, and the health of all 
belonging to you!” you can’t imagine what joy 
enters my heart 
at these words, 
the gratitude that 
I feel for that 
poor man. I feel 
sure that such a 
good wish must 
hold one in per- 
fect health for a 
long time, and I 
go home happy, 
and think, “Oh, 
that poor man 
has returned to 
me a great deal 
more than I gave 
him!” Well, let 
me sometimes 
feel that good 
wish come true, 
merited by you; 
take a penny from your little purse now and then 
and drop it into the hand of a blind man who is 
unable to earn a living, of a mother without bread, 
of a motherless child. The poor love to be helped 
by the boys, because it does not humiliate them, 
and because boys, who wish for anything, resem- 
ble themselves; you will always see poor people 


66 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


around the school houses. The alms of a man is an 
act of charity; but that of a child is at the same time 
an act of charity and a caress — do you understand? It 
is as though a penny and a flower fell from your hand 
together. Reflect that you lack nothing, and that they 
lack everything; that while you aim to be happy, they 
are content even to live. Think how terrible it is in 
the heart of so many palaces, along the streets crowded 
with carriages, and children clad in velvet, that there 
should be women and children who are famished. To 
be without food! O God! Boys like you who are 
good and intelligent, and who, in the midst of a great 
city, have nothing to eat, like wild beasts lost in a 
desert! Oh, never again, Enrico, forget to give some- 
thing to a mother who is in need, without placing a 
penny in her hand. Your Father. 


DECEMBER 


THE TRADER 

Thursday, the ist. 

My father wishes me to have some one of my school- 
mates come to the house every holiday, or that I should 
go to see one of them, so that I will gradually become 
friends with all of them. Sunday I am going for a 
walk with Votini, who is always dressed up and also 
very particular about his appearance, and who is so 
jealous of Derossi. Today Garofii came to the house. 
He is long and lanky, his nose resembles an owl’s 
beak, he also has little roguish eyes which take in 
everything at a glance. He is the son of a grocer, and 
an eccentric fellow; he is continually counting the 
pennies that he has in his pocket; he counts them on 
his fingers like a flash, and can multiply without the 
use of the tables; and he piles up his money, and 
already has a book in the Scholar’s Savings Bank. He 
never spends a penny, I am certain, and if he drops a 
penny under the seats, he is liable to hunt for ^ week 
for it. Derossi says he is a regular mag-pie, for no 
matter what he finds, such as worn-out pens, old post- 
age stamps, pins, candle-ends, anything he can find, 
he picks up. He has made a collection of postage 
stamps for more than two years now; and he already 
has hundreds of them from every land in a large scrap- 
book, which he will sell, when completed, to a book- 
seller. All during this time, the bookseller gives him 
his copy-books free, because he brings a great many 

67 


68 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


boys to the store. In school, he is always trading, 
and not a day passes but that he sells something. He 
also gets up raffles, and trades, and soon after is sorry 
for trading and wants his belongings back ; he buys 
for two and gets rid for four ; he plays at throwing 
pennies, and never loses ; he sells old newspapers over 
again to the tobacco dealer; and he keeps a little note- 
book in which he writes all that he finds and all his 
sums and subtractions. At school, arithmetic is all 
he will study, and if he works for the medal it is only 
because he likes to see the marionettes show. But, 
to tell the truth, he amuses me. We played store with 
weights and scales, and he knows exactly what every- 
thing costs, and understands the scales. He makes 
perfect paper-bags like an old storekeeper. He says 
as soon as he has finished school he shall start in busi- 
ness — in a new business which he only knows about. 
He seemed so content when I gave him some foreign 
postage stamps; and he told me exactly how much he 
would get for each one. My father pretended to be 
reading the newspaper, but he took in the entire con- 
versation, and was greatly pleased. His pockets are 
chucked with little trinkets, and he wears a long coat 
to hide the bulgy pockets, and always appears thought- 
ful and preoccupied with business, like a merchant. 
But his greatest ambition is his collection of postage 
stamps. Why, he even treasures them, and he always 
speaks of it as though he were going to get a fortune 
out of it. His companions accuse him of being a 
miser and a usurer. I don’t know, I like him, for I 
learn a great many things from him, and he seems a 
man to me. Coretti, the lumberman’s son, says that 
he would not give him his postage stamps to save his 
mother’s life. My father won’t believe it. 



CARRYING WOOD TO HEAT THE SCHOOL-ROOM 



DECEMBER 


69 


“Wait awhile before you accuse him," he said to 
me; “his taste runs in that direction, still he has heart 
as well." 


VANITY 

Monday, the 5 th. 

Yesterday I went for a walk along the Rivoli road 
with Votini and his father. When passing through 
the Via Dora Grossa, we spied Stardi, the boy who 
kicks at those who tease him, standing motionless 
before the window of a book-store, and gazing at a 
geographical map ; and no one knows how long he had 
stood there, because he studies even on the street. He 
hardly returned our salute, the impudent fellow! 
Votini was too grandly dressed. He wore morocco 
shoes embroidered in red, an embroidered coat, small 
silken tassels, a white felt hat, and a watch; and he 
carried himself like a peacock. But this time his van- 
ity was destined to come to a bad end. After having 
run for quite a tolerably long distance up the Rivoli 
road, leaving his father, who walked slowly in the 
background, we stopped at a stone seat, on which sat 
a plainly dressed boy, who seemed to be tired, and 
thinking with bowed head. A man, who appeared to 
be his father, was pacing up and down under the 
trees, looking over the newspaper. We seated our- 
selves, Votini placing himself between me and the 
boy. Suddenly remembering his elegant clothes, and 
wishing to inspire admiration and envy from his neigh- 
bor, he put out his foot, and said to me, “Have you 
noticed my officer’s boots?" but the boy paid no atten- 
tion to them. 

Then he dropped his foot, and began to show me his 
silk tassels, glancing out of the corners of his eyes at 



70 A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 

the boy, and said that he would prefer silver buttons 
in their stead, still the boy would not look at the tassels 
either. 

Then Votini commenced spinning his fine white felt 
hat on the tip of his forefinger; but the boy who 
seemed to do it on purpose, did not even take a glance 
at it. 

Votini, who was getting angry, took out his watch. 


and opening it showed me the wheels ; yet the boy did 
not look around. “Is it gold-plated?” I asked him. 

“No,” he replied; “it is gold.” 

“But it is not all gold,” I said; “there must be 
some silver with it. ’ ’ 

“Why, no!” he argued, and, so as to make the boy 
see the watch, he held it before his face, saying, “You 
tell us if it isn’t true that it is all gold?” 

The boy replied sharply, “I don’t know.” 


DECEMBER 


71 


“Oh! oh!“ exclaimed Votini, angrily, “how proud.” 

While saying this, his father came up and heard 
him. He looked steadily at the lad for awhile, then 
said sharply to his son, “Silence!” and, bending down 
to his ear, he added, “He is blind!” 

Springing to his feet, Votini looked in the boy’s 
face, and shuddered. The poor lad’s eyeballs were 
stary. 

Votini stood ashamed and silent, with downcast 
eyes, and finally he mumbled, “I am sorry; I did not 
know.” 

But the sightless boy, having comprehended it all, 
said, with a kind and melancholy smile, “Oh, never 
mind!” 

Votini is undoubtedly vain, but his heart is not bad. 
During the whole of that walk he never laughed again. 


72 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


THE FIRST SNOW-FALL 



Saturday, the loth. 
Good-bye, walks to Rivoli! 
The beautiful friend of the boys 
has come. It is the first snow of 
the year! Ever since last even- 
ing it has been falling 
in flakes as large as jas- 
samine flowers. It was 
so nice this morning at 
school to see it beat 
against the window- 
panes and pile up on the sills. 
The teacher also watched it, rub- 
bing his hands, and all were glad, 
because they thought of the fun 
of making snowballs, and after- 
wards of the ice, and the fire 
place at home. Taken up with his 
lessons, and pressing his fists to 
is temples, Stardi was the only one who took no notice of 
it. What a grand spectacle, what fun there was when we 


DECEMBER 


73 


came out of school! All flew down the street scream- 
ing and throwing out their arms, catching handfuls of 
snow, and dashing about in it, like spaniels in water. 
The parents, who were waiting for them outside, had 
their umbrellas covered with snow; the policeman’s 
helmet was white, and all our school-bags were white 
in a few moments. All seemed to be beside them- 
selves with joy — even Precossi, the blacksmith’s son, 
that pale boy who never laughs; and Robetti, the 
brave lad who saved the little child from the wheels of 
the omnibus, poor boy, jumped about on his crutches. 
The Calabrian, who had never before seen snow, made 
a snow-ball, and began to eat it, as though it were a 
peach ; Crossi, the son of the vegetable vendor, filled 
his school-bag with it; and the little mason made us 
burst with laughter, when my father invited him to 
come to our house tomorrow, because he had his 
mouth chucked full of snow, and, finding it imposible 
to either spit it out or swallow it, he stood choking and 
looking at us, and making no reply. The school 
teachers who came out of school in a hurry were 
laughing; and my teacher of the first higher grade, 
poor thing! ran through the sleet, protecting her face 
with her green veil, and coughing ; and in the mean- 
time hundreds of girls from the neighboring school 
house passed by, shouting and playing on that white 
carpet, and the teachers, janitors and policemen yelled, 
“Run home! run home!” swallowing flakes of the 
snow, which whitened dheir mustaches and beards. 
But they, also, laughed at this wild hilarity of the 
scholars as they hailed the winter. 

You rejoice at the arrival of winter; but there are 
boys who have neither clothing, shoes nor fire. There 
are thousands of these, who go down to the villages, 


74 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


from a long distance, carrying in hands bleeding from 
chilblaines a piece of wood to heat the school-room. 
Hundreds of schools are almost buried in the snow, 
bare and gloomy as caves, where the boys, choke from 
the smoke or chatter their teeth from the cold as they 
look in terror at the white flakes which never end 
descending, and which pile up, never ceasing, on their 
distant cabins threatened by avalanches. You are 
happy when winter comes, boys. Think of the thou- 
sands of creatures to whom winter brings misery and 
death. Your Father. 

THE LITTLE MASON 

Sunday, the nth. 

The little mason came today, entirely dressed in the 
cast-off clothes of his father, which were still white 
with lime and plaster. My father was even more anx- 
ious than I that he should come. He is a great 
pleasure to us. No sooner does he get in than he 
jerks off his tattered cap which was all wet with snow, 
and thrusts it into one of his pockets ; then he advances 
with his careless walk, like a tired workman, turning 
his face, which resembles an apple, in every direction 
with a little round fat nose; and when on entering the 
dining-room he cast a glance around at the furniture 
and his eyes stared when he saw a little picture of 
Rigoletto, a hunchbacked jester, and made a “hare’s 
face.’’ 

It is hard to keep from laughing when one sees him 
make that hare’s face. We commenced playing with 
pieces of wood, and his skill is wonderful, for he can 
make towers and bridges, which stood as if by a miracle, 
and he works at it with the seriousness and patience of a 


DECEMBER 


75 


man. During the building of one tower and another 
he told me about his family who live in an attic; his 
father attends evening school to learn to read, and his 
mother is a washerwoman. His parents must love 
him, for his old suit of clothes is always well mended, 
and it protects him from the cold. His necktie is al- 
ways neatly tied by his mother’s hands. His father, 
he told me, is a fine man — a giant, who has to stoop to 
get through the doors; but he is good and always calls 
his son “Hare’s Face”; and the son is just the oppo- 
site — rather small. 

At four o’clock we had bread and goat’s-milk 
cheese while seated on the sofa; and when we arose, 
can’t tell why, but my father would not allow me to 
brush off the back on which the little mason had left 
the impression of white from his jacket; and then 
rubbed it off on himself when we were not looking. 
While we were playing a button fell from the little 
mason’s hunting coat, and my mother sewed it on. 
His face became scarlet as he watched her sew it on in 
bewilderment and confusion, not even taking a breath. 
Then we gave him some albums of caricatures to look 
at, and he unconsciously imitated the grimaces of the 
faces there so well that even my father laughed. He 
was so content on going home that he didn’t remem- 
ber to put on his ragged cap ; and when we reached 
the bottom of the stairs he made a hare’s face at me 
once more, to show how well pleased he was. His 
name is Antonio Rabucco, and he is eight years and 
eight months old. 

Do you know, my son, why I did not wish you to 
rub off the sofa? Because in doing so while your com- 
panion was looking on would have been almost the 


76 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


same as telling him he had done wrong for soiling the 
sofa. In the first place, you did wrong, for he did not 
mean to do it, and secondly, because he had his father’s 
old working clothes on, which were covered with plas- 
ter ; and what one contracts while working is not dirt 
but dust, lime and varnish, whatever you like, but it is 
not dirt. Labor does not lower one’s dignity. Never 
say of a laborer coming from his work, “He is filthy.’’ 
You should say, “He has on clothes which show signs 
of hard labor and toil. ’ ’ Remember this! You must 
love the little mason ; first, because he is your play- 
mate ; and next because he is the son of a Avorkingman. 

Thy Father. 


A SNOWBALL 

Friday, the i6th. 

And still it snows and snows. All on account of the 
snow a shameful accident occurred this morning when 
we were leaving. A crowd of boys hardly got into the 
Corso when they began to pitch slushy snowballs which 
are hard and as heavy as stones. Many persons were 
going by. A gentleman called out: “Stop that, you 
little scamps!’’ and at the same time a shrill cry came 
from across the street, and we saw an old man who had 
lost his hat tottering about, covering his face with his 
hands, and beside him was a boy who yelled, “Help! 
help!’’ at the top of his voice. 

People quickly hurried to ascertain the cause. The 
poor old man had been hit in the eye with a snowball. 
All the boys disbanded and flew like deers. I was 
standing before the book-store in which my father had 
entered, when I saw several of my schoolmates, 
approaching at a run, mingle with others near me, and 
pretend to be absorbed in looking in at the windows. 
Carrone, who had as usual a penny roll in his pocket. 


DECEMBER 


77 


Coretti, the little mason, and Garoffi, the boy with the 
postage stamps, were among them. A crowd had 
gathered around the old man, and a policeman and 
others were running back and forth, threatening and 
demanding: “Who was it?” “Who did it?” “Wasit 
you?” “Tell me who did it?” and they looked at the 
boys’ hands to see if they were wet with snow. 

Garoffi stood beside me. I noticed that he was 
trembling all over, and that his face was as white as 
marble. “Who was it?” “Who did it?” the crowd 
again demanded. Then I overheard Garrone saying 
in a low voice to Garoffi, “Go, and give yourself into 
their hands ; it would be cowardly to allow another to 
be arrested.” “But I did not do it intentionally,” 
replied Garoffi, trembling like a leaf. 

“Never mind; do your duty,” repeated Garrone. 

“But I have not the courage.” 

“Take courage; I will go with you.” 

Still the policeman and the other people were crying 
louder than ever: “Who was it?” “Who did it?” 
“Whoever did it has driven one of his glasses into his 
eye! He has become blind! The scoundrels!” 

I thought that Garoffi would drop to the ground. 

“Come on,” said Garrone, resolutely. “I will take 
your part.” And taking him by the arm, he pushed 
him forward, helping him along as if he were ill. 
Several persons, instantly understanding, ran up with 
their fists raised, but Garrone rushed between, crying: 

“Would ten of you men attack one boy?” 

Then they were silent, and a policeman, taking 
Garoffi by the. hand, led him, thrusting aside the 
crowd as he passed, to a bakery shop, where the 
wounded man had been carried. Beholding him, I 
suddenly recognized the old employe who lives on 


78 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 



the fourth floor of our house with his grandchild. He 
was stretched out on a chair, with a handkerchief over 
his eyes. 

“I did not do it purposely,” sobbed Garoffi, half 
dead with terror. ‘ ‘ I did not mean 
to do it. ’ ’ 

Two or three persons viplently 
pushing him into the shop, cried: 
‘‘Down on your knees with your 
face on the ground! Beg his 
pardon!” and they threw him 
down. But suddenly two strong 
arms lifted him on his 
feet again, and a firm voice 
said: 

‘‘No, gentlemen!” It 
was our principal, 
who had witnessed 
all. ‘‘Considering 
that he has had the 
courage to pre- 
sent himself,” he 
added, ‘‘no one 
has the right to humiliate him.” All remained silent. 
‘‘Ask his forgiveness,” said the principal to Garoffi. 
Garoffi, his eyes filling with tears, hugged the old 
man’s knees, and the latter, having felt for the boy’s 
head with his hand, caressed his hair. Then all said: 

‘‘Go, lad! go, return home.” And my father, lead- 
ing me out of the crowd, said as we passed along the 
street: ‘‘Enrico, would you have had the courage, 
under the circumstances, to do your duty by confessing 
your fault?” 

I replied that 1 should. And he said: ‘‘Give me 


DECEMBER 


79 


your word, as a lad of heart and honor, that you would 
do it.” 

“I give you my word of honor, father.” 

LADY TEACHERS 

Saturday, the 17th. 

Garoffi was in great distress to-day, because he 
expected to be reprimanded by the teacher; but the 
teacher did not come, also the assistant was absent; so 
Signora Cromi, the oldest of the school teachers, came 
to teach the school. She has two grown-up children, 
and she has taught several of the mothers to .read and 
write, who now come to bring their sons to the Baretti 
school house. She was very unhappy to-day, because 
one of her sons is sick. No sooner had they caught 
sight of her than they began to make fun of her. But 
she said in a slow and thin tone: “Respect my white 
hair; I am not only a school teacher, but a mother as 
well;” and then silente reigned, not even the brazen 
Franti spoke, but made fun behind her back. 

Signora Delcati, my brother’s teacher, was sent to 
take charge of Signora Cromi's class, and Signora 
Delcati ’s place was taken charge of by a teacher who 
is known as “The Little Nun,” because her dress is 
always dark with a black apron, and has a small white 
face, hair that is always smooth, very bright eyes, and 
a delicate voice, that seems to be forever murmuring 
prayers. My mother says she seems very mysterious 
with her weak voice, gentle and timid manner which 
is always the same. She never gets angry or lets her 
temper get the better of her; but with all this her 
boys are kept in perfect order, and the most roguish 
bow their heads when she merely points her finger at 


8o 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


them, and her school resembles a church — that is 
another reason that she is nicknamed “The Little 
Nun.” 

But there is another one whom I like better; it is 
the little teacher of the first grade, room number three. 
She is young and has a rosy face, with two pretty 
dimples in her cheeks, and a little hat with a large red 
feather, a little cross of yellow glass always hangs from 
her neck. She is always cheerful, and keeps her class 
jolly; she is always calling out with that sweet voice 
of hers, which makes one imagine she was singing, 
and tapping her little rod on the table, and clapping 
her hands to impose silence; then, when they come 
out of school, she runs after one and then another like 
a child, to bring them back into line; she fixes the 
cape of one, and buttons the coat of another, so that 
they may not take cold; she follows them even into 
the street, in orde*r that they do not fight; she 
beseeches the parents not to whip them at home ; she 
brings cough drops to those who have colds ; and lends 
her muff to those who are cold. The little children 
are always teasing their teacher for kisses and even 
pull at her veil and her mantle; but she does not mind 
and returns all their kisses with a smile, and after 
school she returns home with her breath almost gone, 
but still happy, and her beautiful dimples and red 
feathers always visible. She is also the girls’ drawing 
teacher, and she supports her mother and a brother by 
her own lahert. 

IN THE HOME OF THE WOUNDED MAN 

Sunday, the i8th. 

The little grandchild of the old employ^ who was 
struck in the eye by Garofiii’s snowball is with the 


DECEMBER 


8i 

teacher who has the red feather in her hat. We saw 
him to-day in his uncle’s house, where he is treated 
like a son. I had just completed writing out the 
monthly story for next week — “The Little Florentine 
Scribe” — which the teacher had given me to copy, 
when my father said to me : 

“Let us go up to the fourth floor and see how that 
old gentleman’s eye is.” 

We entered an almost dark room where the old man 
was sitting up in bed, with a pile of pillows behind his 
shoulders; by the bedside sat his wife, and in one 
corner his grandchild was amusing himself. The old 
man had a bandage over his eye. He was pleased to 
see my father; bade us be seated, and told us that he 
felt much better, that his eye was not lost, and that he 
would be quite well again in a few days. 

“It was an accident,” he added. “I am sorry for 
the fright it must have caused that poor boy.” He 
then spoke about the doctor, whom he expected every 
moment to attend him. Just then the door-bell rang. 
“It is the doctor,” said his wife. 

The door opens — and who did I see? Garofifi, in 
his long cloak, standing with bowed head in the door- 
way without the courage to enter. 

“Who is it?” asked the sick man. 

“It is the boy who threw the snowball,” said my 
father. And then the old man said: 

“Oh, my poor boy! Come here. You have come 
to ask after the wounded man, have you not? But he 
is better, so do not be afraid. He is better and nearly 
well. Come here.” 

Garofh, who had not seen us in his confusion, 
approached the bed, holding back the tears. The old 
man caressed him, unable to speak. 


82 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


“Thank you,” said the old man; “go and tell your 
father and mother that all goes well, and that all must 
be forgotten.” But Garoffi, who did not move, 
seemed to have something to say which he dared not 
utter. 

“What do you wish to say? What do you wish?” 

“I — nothing.” 

“Well, good-bye, until we meet again, my boy; go 
with your heart in peace. ’ ’ 

Garoffi had gone as far as the door; but there he 
stopped, turned to the little grandson, who was fol- 
lowing him, and gazed curiously at him. Suddenly 
he pulled something from underneath his cloak, and 
putting it into the boy’s hand he whispered hastily: 
“ It is for you, ’ ’ and away he ran like lightning. 

The boy carried the gift to his uncle, and on it were 
the words, “I give you this.” We looked inside, and 
gave an exclamation of surprise, for it was the famous 
album containing his collection of postage stamps, 
which poor Garoffi had parted with, the collection of 
which he was always talking, upon which he had laid 
so many hopes, and which had cost him so much 
trouble ; it was his’ treasure, poor boy ! it was the half 
of his very blood, which he had given in exchange for 
his pardon. 

THE LITTLE FLORENTINE SCRIBE 

(THE MONTHLY STORY) 

He was in the first class of the fourth grade. He 
was a charming Florentine boy of twelve, with black 
hair and a pale face, the eldest son of an employ^ on 
the railway, who having a large family and but small 
pay, lived in poor circumstances. His father loved 


DECEMBER 


83 


him and was good and kind to him, giving him his own 
way in everything except that which pertained to 
school; on this point he was very severe, in which he 
demanded a great deal, because his son was obliged to 
work very hard in order to get through school quick, 
so that he could aid his family. In order to do this it 
required a great deal of work in little time, and even 
though the boy studied hard his father never seemed 
satisfied. His father was quite old, and the hard 
labor made him look even older than he really was. 
However, to provide for the wants of liis family, 
besides his daily work which his position demanded, 
he obtained extra work here and there as a copyist, 
and passed the best part of the night at his writing 
table. 

This night-work he had obtained from a publishing 
house which edited journals ^nd books, and consisted 
in writing the names and addresses of their subscrib- 
ers, earning sixty cents for every five hundred of these 
paper wrappers, written in a bold and regular hand ; 
but this work was a great strain on him, and he often 
told his troubles to his family at dinner. 

“My eyes are getting weaker, “ he said; “this night- 
work will kill me.” 

One day his son said to him: “Let me work in your 
stead, papa; you know that I can write like you, and 
fairly well;’’ but the father replied: 

“No, my son, you must study; your lessons are 
much more important than my wrappers; I feel 
remorse at robbing a single hour from you. I thank 
you, but I will not permit it ; so do not mention it to 
me again. ’ ’ 

The son, knowing it to be useless to insist on such 
a matter with his father, did not persist ; but this is 


84 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


what he did. Knowing that exactly at midnight his 
father finished writing, and that he left his workroom 
to go to his bedroom, as the clock struck twelve, for 
he had heard the sound of a chair drawn back, and the 
slow step of his father. He waited one night until the 


latter was in bed, then 
dressed himself, very, 
very softly felt his way 
to the little workroom, 
lighted the petroleum 
lamp again, seated him- 
self at the writing table, 
where were a stack of 
white wrappers and the 
list of addresses, and 
started writing, imitating 
exactly his father’s hand- 
writing. And he wrote 
with a good will, gladly, a 
little in fear, and the 
wrappers accum ulated 
and from time to time he 
dropped the pen to rub 



his hands, and then began again with increased cheer- 
fulness, listening and smiling. He wrote a hundred 
and sixty — twenty cents. 

Then he stopped, laid the pen where he had found 
it, put out the light, and went back to bed, on tiptoe. 

That day his father sat down at the table for lunch- 
eon in a good humor. He had perceived nothing. 
He performed the work mechanically, measuring it by 
the hour, with his thoughts elsewhere and never 
counted the wrappers he had written until the follow- 
ing day. 



THE OLD MAN HAD A BANDAGE OVER HIS EYE 




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DECEMBER 85. 

Seating himself at the table good naturedly and 
slapping his son on his shoulder, he said : 

“Eh, Giulio! your father is a better workman than 
you thought. Last night I wrote a good third more 
wrappers- than usual in two hours. My hand is still 
nimble, and my eyes still perform their duty.” 

Giulio, silent but happy, said to himself: “Poor 
father, besides the gain, I am giving him the pleasure 
of presuming himself young again. Well, courage.” 

Inspired by these good results, when night came 
and twelve o’clock struck, he got up once more and 
fell to work. This he did for several nights, his father 
never noticing anything; once while at the supper 
table, he exclaimed: “It is strange how much kero- 
sene is being used in this house lately!” This remark 
made the boy shudder, ,but the conversation ended 
there, and the night work proceeded. 

However, by thus breaking his sleep every night, 
Giulio did not get the necessary rest ; . arising in the 
morning tired, and found it very hard to keep his eyes 
open when doing his school work in the evening. 

One evening, for the first time in his life, he fell 
asleep over his copy-book. 

‘ ‘ Courage ! courage ! ’ ’ cried his father, clapping his 
hands; “to work!” 

He arose with a start and set to work again. The 
next evening, and on the following days, the same 
thing happened, and worse : he dozed over his books, 
arose later than usual, studied his lessons carelessly, 
appearing disgusted with them. His father began to 
scold him. He should never have done so. 

“Giulio,” he said to him one morning, “I am disap- 
pointed in you. You are no longer as of old. I will 
not have it. Take care; all the hopes of the family 


86 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


rest upon you. I am displeased, do you under- 
stand?” 

At this reproach, the first really severe one which he 
had ever received, the boy became disturbed. 

“Yes,” he said to himself, ‘‘it is true; it cannot go 
on so; this deceit must not continue.” 

But that same day at dinner his father said cheer- 
fully: ‘‘Do you know that this month I have earned 
six dollars more at addressing those wrappers than last 
month?” after which he drew from under the table a 
package of sweets which he had bought to celebrate 
with his children this unusual profit, and they all wel- 
comed it with clapping of hands. 

Then Giulio took courage again, and said in his 
heart: ‘‘No, poor papa, I will not continue deceiving 
you, taking more interest in. my work during the day, 
but I shall still work at night for you and for the 
rest.” And his father added, ‘‘Six dollars more! I 
am content. But that one there,” pointing at Giulio, 
“displeases me.” And Giulio took the reproof in 
silence, forcing back his tears, at the same time feel- 
ing a great pleasure in his heart. 

However, he still worked on, keeping up as much as 
possible, but fatigue added to fatigue made it harder 
for him to resist. Thus things continued for two 
months. The father continued to reprimand his son, 
and to look at him with scorn. 

One day he went to make inquiries of the teacher, 
and the teacher said to him: “Yes, he keeps up 
because he is intelligent; but he does not study with 
such a good will as he used to. His mind seems far 
away; he is sleepy and is always yawning. He even 
scribbles down his compositions without care. Oh, he 
could do far better if he liked.” 


DECEMBER 


87 


That evening the father drew his son aside and 
spoke to him words which cut him more than any he 
had heard his father utter. 

“Giulio, you see how I work, how I am wearing out 
my existence for the family. You do not help me in 
my struggles. Your affection has disappeared for me, 
your mother and brothers..’' 

“Ah, no! don’t say that, father!’’ cried the son, 
bursting into tears, on the point of confession. 

His father interrupted him, saying’: “You should 
know of the condition of the family; and with the good 
will and a little sacrifice on the part of all is what must 
be done. I myself, as you see, have had to double my 
work. It was in the hopes of receiving twenty dollars 
from the railway company this month, but at present 
I have learned that I shall receive nothing.’’ 

At this information, Giulio held back the confession 
which was just about to escape from his soul, and 
repeated with great determination to himself: “No, 
papa, I shall tell you nothing; I shall keep my secret 
for the sake of being able to work for you; I will 
reward you in another way for the sorrow which I 
bring on you, I will study very hard so as to win 
advancement; the important point is to help keep up 
the family and to relieve you of the hard labor which 
is killing you. ’’ 

He still continued for two months more working by 
night and weakening by day, of desperate efforts on 
the part of the son, with his father always chastising him. 

But he hardly ever spoke to him. The father con- 
tinued to grow colder towards the boy, as though he 
had been a wayward son, of whom nothing more was 
to be expected, and almost avoided meeting his glance. 
Giulio, noticing this, suffered from it, and when his 


88 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


father was not looking he would stealthily throw a 
kiss, stretching forth his face with a dutiful affection; 
and between sadness and fatigue he grew weaker, and 
with all this he still neglected his studies. 

He felt certain that things would not go on in this 
way ; every night he said to himself : “I will not get 
up to-night,” but when the clock struck twelve, at the 
moment when he should have stood firmly to his reso- 
lution, he felt guilty ; it appeared to him that by 
remaining in bed he should be failing in a duty and 
robbing his father and the family of twenty cents. 
He jumped up with the thought that some night his 
father would wake up and catch him, or that he would 
discover the trick by accident, by counting the wrap- 
pers twice ; and then all would end well, without hav- 
ing to tell, because he didn’t have pluck enough to tell 
his father all. And he continued on. 

One evening at dinner his father spoke a word which 
decided him. His mother looked at him, and as it 
seemed to her that he was more pale and thinner than 
usual, she said to him, “Giulio, you are not well.” 
Then turning to his father, anxiously said: “Giulio is 
ill. Look how pale he is! Giulio, my dear, are you 
sick?” 

His father said: “It is his guilty conscience that 
causes his illness. He was once a scholar and a loviner 
son.” 

“But he is ill!” exclaimed the mother. 

“I have lost. all respect for him,” said the father. 

This remark sunk deep in the heart of the poor boy. 
Ah ! he cared nothing any more. His father, who once 
worried at the sound of a cough from him, cared for 
him no longer. It was plainly seen his father’s heart 
had chilled. “Ah, no! father,” said the boy to him- 


DECEMBER 


89 


self, his heart pained with anguish, “now all is at an 
end ; without your love I cannot live. I must have it 
all back. I will tell you all ; I will keep it from you 
no longer. I will study as I used to if you only love 
me as of old. This time I am quite sure of my 
decision.” 

Still he rose that night again, by force of habit more 
than anything else ; and when once up, he wanted to 
go and see again for the last time, in the stillness of 
the night, the little room where he worked so much in 
secret with his heart full of satisfaction and tender- 
ness. When he saw once more the little table with the 
lamp lighted and those white wrappers on which he 
was never mbre to write the names of towns and per- 
sons, which he had learned to know by heart, he was 
seized with a great sadness, and with a sudden move- 
ment he caught the pen to continue his usual work. 
But in reaching out his hand he struck a book and the 
book fell. The blood rushed to his heart. What if his 
father awakened. Certainly he would not have been 
caught in the act of performing a bad deed ; he had 
himself concluded to tell him all, and yet, hearing the 
sound of that step approaching in the darkness, — 
being discovered at that hour in that silence, — his 
mother, who would be awakened and alarmed, — and 
the thought, which had never tumbled to him, that his 
father might feel in his presence on thus finding out 
all; — all this almost alarmed him. 

He listened, holding his breath, but heard no sound. 
He laid his ear to the lock of the door behind him, still 
no noise. The whole house was asleep. His father 
had not heard. He grew calm again and turned once 
more to his writing, and wrapper was piled on wrap- 
per. He heard the regular, heavy footsteps of the 


90 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


policeman below in the lonely street ; then the noise 
of a carriage which faded away; then, after a pause, 
the rattle of a file of carts which passed slowly by ; 
then a deep silence, broken from time to time by the 
distant barking of a dog, he still continued to write, 
not knowing his father was behind him. 

He had started up on hearing the fall of the book, 
and had remained waiting for a longtime; the rattle of 
the carts had muffled the noise of his footsteps and the 
creaking of the door. The father bent his white head 

over the child as he 
was bending over the 
wrappers. In an in- 
stant he* had all, re- 
membered all, un- 
derstood all, and a 
despair ing peni- 
tence, but at the 
same time an im- 
mense love, had 
taken hold of his 
mind and had rooted 
and suffocated him 
on the spot. Suddenly Giulio uttered a fearful scream; 
two arms had pressed his head convulsively. 

“Oh, papa, papa! forgive me, forgive me!” he cried, 
recognizing his father by his weeping. 

“Do you forgive me?’’ replied his father, sobbing 
and raining kisses on his face. I have understood all, 
I know all; it is I, it is I who implore your forgive- 
ness, my blessed little boy. Come, come with me!’’ 
And he pushed or rather carried him to the bedside of 
his mother, who was awake, and throwing him into her 
arms, said: 



DECEMBER 


91 


“Kiss this little angel of a son, who has not slept for 
three months, but has been toiling for me, while I was 
afflicting his heart, and he was earning our bread!” 

The mother pressed him to her bosom, holding him 
there, without being able to speak ; at last she said : 
“Go to sleep at once, my child; go to sleep and rest. — 
Carry him to bed. ’ ’ 

The father, taking him from her arms, carried him 
to his room, and laid him in his bed, still breathing 
with difficulty and caressing him, and arranged his pil- 
lows and coverlets for him. 

“Thanks, papa,” the child went on repeating; 
“thanks, but go to bed yourself now; I am happy; go 
to bed, papa. ’ ’ 

His father wished to see him fall asleep; so he 
seated himself beside the bed, took his hand, and said 
to him, “Sleep, sleep, my little son!” and Giulio, 
being weak, soon fell asleep and slumbered many 
hours, enjoying for the first time in many months a 
quiet sleep, full of pleasant dreams; and on opening 
his eyes when the sun had already been shining for a 
long time, he first felt and then saw, close to him and 
resting upon the edge of the little bed, the white head 
of his father, who had been there the whole night, and 
who was still asleep, with his brow against his son's 
heart. 

WILL 

Wednesday, the 28th. 

Stardi, who is in my class, would have the strength 
to do what the little Florentine did. Two things hap- 
pened this morning at school. Garoffi was wild with 
delight, because his album had been returned to him 
with the addition of three postage stamps of the 


92 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


republic of Guatemala, which he had been trying to 
get for three months ; and Stardi received the second 
medal. He who was next in the class after Derossi. 
All were astonished at it. Who would ever have pre- 
dicted it, when, in October, his father brought him to 
school bundled up in that big green coat, and said to 
he teacher before all : 

“You must be patient with him, because he is very 
hard of comprehending!” 

Every one believed him to be a blockhead from the 
very beginning. But he said, “I will succeed or 
burst,” and he set to work stubbornly, to study day 
and night, at home, at school, while walking, with 
teeth clenched and closed fists, patient as an ox, 
obstinate as a mule; and thus by trampling on every 
one, disregarding mockery, and throwing kicks to dis- 
turbers, this big empty headed lad passed ahead of the 
rest. He did not understand the first rules of arith- 
metic, he never wrote a correct composition, and could 
never remember a single phrase. Now he solves prob- 
lems, writes correctly, and sings his lessons like a 
song. One can almost guess he has an iron will by his 
appearance, which is so stumpy, with a square head 
and no neck, short hands and gruff voice. He even 
writes his lessons on scraps of newspaper, and on 
theater bills, and whenever he has ten cents he buys a 
book. He has already collected a little library, and 
feeling good-naturedly one day he promised that he 
would take me home and show it to me. He speaks to 
no one, fools with no one, and he is always there at 
his desk, with his fists pressed to his temples, firm as 
a rock, listening to the teacher. How he must have 
worked, poor Stardi ! The teacher, although impatient 
and in an ugly mood this morning, said to him while 


DECEMBER 


93 


presenting medals : “Bravo, Stardi! he 'who endures, 
conquers.” This compliment did not in the least 
swell him with pride nor did he smile ; and as soon as 
he returned to his seat, with the medal, he replaced 
his fists on his temples, becoming more motionless and 
more attentive than before. But the best thing of all oc- 
curred when going from school that day, for his father, 
as big and stumpy as himself, with an immense face 
and a huge voice, was there waiting for him. He had 
not expected this medal, and so it became necessary 
for the teacher to assure him, and then he began 
laughing heartily and slapping his son on the back of 
the neck. “Bravo! well done, my dear pumpkin! 
You’ll do!” and he gazed at him, astonished and smil- 
ing. All the boys around him smiled too, except 
Stardi. He was already thinking over the lesson for 
to-morrow morning in that large head of his. 


GRATITUDE 

Saturday, the 31st. 

Your school-chum Stardi never complains of his 
teacher; I am sure of that. “The teacher was in an 
ugly mood and impatient” — you say it in a tone of 
resentment. Think how often you give way to acts of 
impatience a moment, how often your temper gets the 
best of you, and to whom? No one but your father 
and mother, and you know that is a crime. Your 
teacher has every right to be impatient at times. 
Remember that he has been laboring for boys these 
many years, and that if he has found many loving and 
generous scholars among them, he has also found 
many unthankful ones, who have abused his kindness 


94 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


and paid no heed to his toils, and that, between you 
all, you cause him far more bitterness than satisfac- 
tion. Reflect, that the most saintly man on earth, if 
placed in his position, would allow himself to give way 
to wrath at times. If you only would realize how 
often ,the teacher goes to give a lesson to a sick boy 
because he is not ill enough to be excused from school 
and is pained to see that the rest of you do not notice 
it or abuse it! Regard and esteem your master, my 
son. Love him, also, because your father loves and 
respects him, for he uses all his energy and life for the 
happiness of so many boys who will forget him; love 
him because he opens and brightens your intelligence 
and educates your mind; because when you are a 
man, and when he and I are both dead and gone, his 
image will often come to your mind, side by side with 
mine, and then you will see certain expressions of sad- 
ness and fatigue in his honest countenance to which 
you now pay no attention ; you will recall all his good 
deeds and they will grieve you, even after the lapse of 
thirty years; and you will feel ashamed, you will feel 
unhappy at not having honored him, at having behaved 
badly to him. Love your teacher, for he belongs to 
that immense family of fifty thousand ‘ elementary 
instructors, scattered throughout all Italy, who are the 
intelligent fathers of the millions of boys who are 
growing up with you; the laborers, poorly paid and 
hardly looked at, who are preparing in our country a 
people superior to those of the present. 

I don’t feel satisfied with the affection you show me, 
those who are doing you good, and you haven’t any 
even for those who do you good. 

Next to your parents, love your teacher. Love him 
as you would love a brother of mine ; love him when 


DECEMBER 


95 


he embraces and when he reprimands you ; when he is 
right, and when he appears to you in the wrong; love 
him when he is gentle and kind ; and love him even 
moie when yOu see him downcast. Love him forever. 
And always pronounce with high esteem the name of 
“teacher,” which, after that of your father, is the 
noblest, the sweetest name which one man can apply 
to another man. 


Thy Father. 


JANUARY 


THE ASSISTANT TEACHER 

Wednesday, the 4th. 

My father was right ; the teacher was cross because 
he was not well. For the last three days the assistant 
has been teacher in his place — that little man, without 
a beard, who looks like a boy. 

A disgraceful occurrence happened this morning. 
There had been an uproar for the first two days in the 
school because the assistant was too good and- did 
nothing but say, “Be still! Stop your noise, I beg of 
you.” 

But this morning they became unsupportable. Such 
a disturbance arose that his words could not be heard, 
and he advised and besought ; but he might as well 
have kept still. Twice the principal appeared at the 
door and looked in; but the moment he disappeared 
the noise continued as in a market: Derossi and Gar- 
rone turned round several times to ask the other boys 
to behave, for it was a shame to act in that manner. 
No one paid any attention to them. Stardi alone sat 
quiet, with his elbows on his desk, and his fists to his 
temples, thinking probably about his famous library ; 
and Garoffi, that boy with the hooked nose and the 
postage stamps, whose time was taken up in making a 

catalogue of the subscribers at cents each, for a 

lottery for a pocket inkwell. The rest talked loud and 
laughed, ^pounded on the end of their pens and struck 

96 


JANUARY 


97 



the pen points in the desk, and snapped pellets of 
paper at each other with the elastics of their garters. 
The assistant grabbed one after the other by the arm 
and shook him. He thrust another against the wall; 
but his pleadings were of no avail. He no longer 
knew what to do, and he entreated them: “Why do 
you behave like this? Do you wish me to punish you 
by force?” Then he thumped the little table with his 
fist, and shouted in a voice of wrath and lamentation. 


“Silence! silence! silence!” He could not be heard, 
because the noise kept on increasing. Franti threw a 
paper ball at him, some uttered cat-calls, others 
punched one another on the head. The yelling and 
noise was indescribable; when all of a sudden the 
janitor entered and said: 

“Signor Teacher, the principal has sent for you.” 

The teacher hurried out with a motion of despair. 
Still the noise became louder, when suddenly Garrone 


98 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


leaped to his feet, his face drawn, and his fists 
clenched, and shouted in a voice choked with rage : 

“Stop this! You are brutes! You take advantage 
of him because he is kind. If he were to bruise your 
bones for you; you would be as abject as dogs. You 
are a lot of cowards ! The first one of you that makes 
fun of him again I will wait for outside, and I will 
break his teeth — I swear it — even under the very eyes 
of his father!” 

All became silent. Ah, what a fine thing it was to 
see Garrone, with his eyes flashing fire ! He looked a 
furious )^oung lion. He stared at the boldest boys, 
one after the other, and all hung their heads. When 
the assistant, whose eyes were red, returned, not a 
breath was audible. He stood in amazement ; then, his 
eyes resting on Garrone, who still trembled with 
anger, he understood it all, and said to him, with great 
love, as he might have spoken to a brother; “I thank 
you, Garrone.” 


STARDI’S LIBRARY 

I have been to Stardi’s home, which is across the 
street from the school-house, and I really felt envious 
at the sight of his library. He is not at all wealthy, 
and he cannot buy many books; but he keeps his 
school-books in a fine condition, as well as those pre- 
sented him by his relatives ; and he lays aside every 
cent he gets so as to spend the sum at the bookseller’s. 
He has in this way collected a little library; and when 
his father noticed that he had this great liking for 
books, he bought him a handsome walnut wood book- 
case with a green curtain, and he had most of his vol- 
umes bound for him in the colors that he prefers. 


JANUARY 


99 


Thus when he pulls a little cord, the green curtain 
draws aside, and three rows of books of every color 
are seen all ranged in order, and shining, with gilt 
titles on their backs, — books of story, of travels, and 
of poetry; and some illustrated ones. He under- 
stands how to harmonize colors well; he places the 
white volumes next to the red ones, the yellow next 
the black, the blue beside the white, so that seen from 
a distance, they make a very fine appearance, and he 
amuses himself by varying the combinations. He has 
made himself a catalogue. He is like a librarian. He 
always stands near his books, dusting them, turning 
over the leaves, examining the bindings; it is amusing 
to see how carefully he opens them, with his big 
stubby hands, and blows between the pages, and then 
they seem perfectly new again. Mine are all worn 
out. He is happy when he buys a new book; he 
caresses it, puts it in its place, takes it up again to take 
another look at it from all sides, and watches over it as 
a treasure. He showed me nothing else for a whole 
hour. His eyes ached, because he had read too 
much. At a certain time his father, who is large and 
stumpy like himself, with a big head like his, entered 
the room and gave him two or three slaps on the nape 
of the neck, saying, with that heavy voice of his: 

“What do you think of him, eh? of his head of 
bronze? It is a big head, that will succeed in any- 
thing, I assure you.” 

Under these rough caresses Stardi half closed his 
eyes like a big hunting-dog. I do not know, I never 
dare fool with him; it does not seem true to me that 
he is only a year older than myself; and when he said 
tome, “Farewell, until we meet again,” at the door, 
with that face of his that seems always sullen, I came 

Lore. 


lOO 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


very near replying to him, “I salute you, sir,” as to a 
man. I told about it to my father afterwards, at 
home: “I don’t understand it; Stardi has no natural 
talent, he has not fine manners, and his face is almost 
ridiculous; yet I learn so much from him. During 
the hour that I spent with him he did not utter fifty 
words, he did not show me a single plaything, and 
never laughed once ; yet I like to go there. ’ ’ 

My father replied: ‘‘That is because you admire 
him.” 

Yes, but I admire Precossi also; and to say that I 
admire him is not enough. Precossi, the son of the 
blacksmith-ironmonger, — that pale little fellow with 
kind, melancholy eyes and frightened air, and who is 
so timid that he says to every one, ‘‘Excuse me,” and 
who, although sickly, yet studies so much. His father 
returns home drunk, and whips him without the 
slightest cause in the world, and pitches his books and 
copy-books in the air with a backward turn of his 
hand. Precossi often comes to school with black and 
blue marks on his face, sometimes with his face all 
swollen and his eyes inflamed with much weeping. 
But never will he acknowledge that his father whips 
him. 

‘‘Your father has been beating you,” his school- 
mates say to him; and he exclaims quickly: “It is not 
true! it is not true!” for the sake of not disgracing 
his father. “You did not burn this leaf,” the teacher 
says to him, showing him his work, half burned. 
“Yes,” he replies, in a trembling voice; “I let it fall 
on the fire.” 

Yet we know very well that his drunken father upset 
the table with a kick while the poor boy was studying. 
He lives in the attic of our house, reached by another 



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JANUARY 


lOI 


stairway. The janitor’s wife tells my mother every- 
thing. My sister Silvia heard his screams from the 
terrace one day when his father had knocked him 
headlong downstairs because he had asked for a few 
cents to buy a grammar. His father drinks, does not 
work, and his family suffers from hunger. How often 
does poor Precossi come to school half famished, and 
bites little by little in secret at a roll which Garrone has 
given him, or at an apple given him by the little 
teacher who taught him in the first lower class. 

He never says, “I am hungry; my father does not 
give me anything to eat. ’ ’ Sometimes his father waits 
for him, when he happens to be passing the school- 
house, — pale, unsteady on his feet, with a savage look 
on his face, his hair over his eyes, and his cap awry ; 
and the poor boy trembles all over when he catches 
sight of him. Still he quickly runs smilingly to meet 
him, but his father feigns not to see him, as though he 
were lost in thought. Poor Precossi! He mends his 
torn copy-books, borrows books to study his lessons, 
fastens his tattered shirt together with pins ; and it is 
pitiful to see him performing his gymnastics, for he 
wears those big shoes in which he is fairly lost, those 
trousers which are so long that they touch the ground, 
and that jacket which is too long, and those large 
sleeves turned back to the elbows. He studies and 
does his utmost, and would be one of the first of the 
class were he able to work at home in peace. This 
morning he came to school with fingernail marks on 
one cheek and the boys all said to him : 

“It is your father, and you cannot deny it this time; 
it was your father who did that to you. Tell the prin- 
cipal about it, and he will have him called to account 
-for it.’’ 


102 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


Hearing this, Precossi jumped up, flushed, and with 
a voice trembling with indignation he said: 

“It’s not true! it’s not true! My father never beats 
me!’’ 

Then during lesson time his tears fell upon his desk, 
and when any one looked at him, he tried to smile, so 
as not to show it. Poor Precossi! Derossi, Coretti 
and Nelli are coming to my house to-morrow. I want 
to ask Precossi to come also, and take luncheon with 
me. I will give him some books, turn the house 
upside down to amuse him, and fill his pockets with 
fruit, so as to see him happy for once, poor Precossi ! 
He is so good and so courageous. 

A FINE VISIT 

Thursday, the 12 th. 

This has been one of the jolliest Thursdays of the 

year for me. At exact- 
ly two o’clock Derossi, 
Coretti and Nelli, the 
little hunchback, came 
to the house; Precossi 
was not permitted by 
his father to come. 

Derossi and Coretti 
were still laughing at 
their meeting with 
Crossi, who has a use- 
less arm and red hair, 
and is the son of the 
vegetable-s e 1 1 e r , in 
the street, — because he 
was carrying a huge 






THEN THE TROOPS SPRANG OUT OF THE DOOR, WITH BAYONETS 

LOWERED 




JANUARY 


103 

cabbage for sale, and said that he would buy a pen and 
penholder with the penny he got for it. He was so glad, 
for his father had written from America that they might 
expect him home any day. Oh,, the two happy hours 
that we passed together! Derossi and Coretti are ’the 
two jolliest boys in the school; my father likes them 
very much. Coretti had on his chocolate-colored 
jacket and his catskin cap. He is a lively fellow, and 
always interferes in everything to cause mischief. He 
had already carried on his shoulders half a cartload of 
wood, early that morning; but this did not prevent 
him from jumping all around the house, letting noth- 
ing go by him and talking all the time, as sprightly 
and nimble as a squirrel; and passing into the kitchen, 
he inquired of the cook how much we had to pay a 
myriagramme for wood, because his father sells it at 
forty-five cents. 

He never finishes talking about his father during 
the time when he was a soldier in the forty-ninth regi- 
ment, at the battle of Custoza, where he served in the 
squadron of Prince Umberto. He is so gentle in his 
manners, for even if he was raised among wood it does 
not make any difference, for he has a good heart, my 
father always says. Derossi makes us all laugh, 
because he can recite his geography like the teacher. 
He shut his eyes and said: 

“There, I see the entire peninsula of Italy; the 
Apennines, which extend to the Ionian Sea, the rivers 
flowing here and there, the white cities, the gulfs, the 
blue bays, the green island.” And he repeated the 
names correctly in their order and very rapidly, just 
as if he had the map in front of him ; and looking at 
him standing with his head held high, and his golden 
curls, his closed eyes, and all dressed in bright blue 


104 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


with gilt buttons, as straight and handsome as a 
statue, "we were all filled with admiration. It just 
took him one hour to learn by heart nearly three pages 
which he is to recite the day after to-morrow for the 
anniversary of the funeral of King Vittorio. Even 
Nelli stared at him in surprise and love, as he rubbed 
the folds of his apron of black cloth and smiled with 
his clear and sad eyes. This visit has given me much 
happiness; it left a' fond remembrance in my mind 
and heart. It made me glad too, when they went 
away, to see poor Nelli between the other two tall, 
strong fellows who carried him home on their arms and 
made him laugh as I have never seen him laugh 
before. When I returned to the dining-room I noticed 
that the picture representing Rigoletto, the hunchback 
jester, was no longer there. My father had taken it 
down for the sake of Nelli. 


THE FUNERAL OF VICTOR EMANUEL 

Tuesday, the 17th. 

We had no sooner entered the schoolroom at two 
o’clock to-day than the teacher called up Derossi, who 
went and stood before the little table facing us, and 
began to recite, in his vibrating tones, slowly raising 
his clear voice, and becoming flushed. 

Four years ago, on this day, at this hour, there 
arrived in front of the Pantheon at Rome the hearse 
which brought the body of Victor Emanuel II., the 
first king of Italy, who died after having reigned 
twenty-nine years, during which time the great Italian 
nation, divided into seven states, and oppressed by 
strangers and tyrants, had been brought back to life 


JANUARY 


loS 

in one single state, free and independent; after a reign 
of twenty-nine years, which he had made illustrious 
and beneficent with his valor, with loyalty, with bold- 
ness amid perils, with wisdom amid triumphs, with 
constancy amid misfortunes. 

The hearse arrived, covered with wreaths, after 
having gone through the streets of Rome under a rain 
of flowers. Among an immense, grieving and silent 
multitude, which had congregated from all parts of 
Italy, preceded by a legion of generals and by a 
throng- of cabinet members and princes, followed by 
representatives of three hundred towns, by everything 
which represents the power and the glory of a people, 
it arrived in front of the august temple which enclosed 
the tomb. At that moment twelve king’s guards 
of honor removed the coffin from the hearse. Italy 
bade her last farewell to her dead king, to her father, 
to the twenty-nine most fortunate and most blessed 
years in her history. It was a grand and solemn 
moment. The looks, the hearts, of all were quivering 
at the sight of that coffin and the mourned flags of the 
eighty regiments of the Italian army, borne by eighty 
officers lined up on both sides as the hearse passed on 
its route; for Italy was there in those eighty tokens, 
which brought back to memory the thousands of dead, 
the torrents of blood, our most sacred glories, our 
most holy sacrifices, our most tremendous griefs. 
The coffin, borne by the king’s guards of honor, 
passed, and then the flags bent forward all together 
in salute. The flags of the new regiments, the old, 
tattered flags of Goito, of Pastrengo, of San Martino, 
of Chastelfidardo : eighty black veils fell, a hundred 
medals clashed against the stones, and that sonorous 
and confused uproar, which stirred the blood of all, 


io6 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


was like the sound of a thousand human voices saying 
all together, “Farewell, good king, brave, loyal king! 
You will live in the hearts of your people as long as 
the sun shall shine over Italy.” 

After this, the banners rose towards heaven again, 
and King Victor entered into the everlasting glory of 
the tomb. 


FRANTI EXPELLED FROM SCHOOL 

Saturday, the 21st. 

Only one boy was capable of laughing while Derossi 
was reciting the funeral eulogy of the king, and that 
boy was Franti. I abhor that fellow, for he is 
wicked. Should a parent come to school to reprimand 
his son, he enjoys it, and when any one cries he 
laughs. He trembles before Garrone, and hits the 
little mason because he is little; torments Crossi 
because he has a helpless arm; ridicules Precossi, 
whom every one respects, and he even mocks Robetti, 
that boy in the second grade who walks on crutches, 
through having saved a child. He disturbs those 
weaker than himself, and when it comes to blows, he 
grows brutal and tries to do harm. There is some- 
thing underneath that low forehead, in those wicked 
eyes, which are almost hidden under the visor of his 
small glazed cap, which inspires a shudder. He is 
afraid of no one, giggles in the teacher’s face, steals 
when he can, denying it with an impudent face, is 
always quarreling with some one, brings long pins to 
school to prick his neighbors, tears buttons from his 
own jackets and from those of others, to fool with 
them ; his paper, books, and copy-books are all 


JANUARY 


107 


crushed, torn, dirty, his ruler and pens gnawed, his 
nails bitten, and his clothes covered with stains and 
rents which he has gotten in fights. It is said that his 
mother has become ill from the grievances he causes 
her, and that his father has chased him from the house 
three times. 

His mother comes every once in a while to make 
inquiries, and she always departs crying^ He is an 
enemy of school, he dislikes his school-chums, and 
even hates the teacher. The teacher makes believe 
he does not see his misbehavior, and he acts all the 
worse. He tried to reform him by gentleness, but the 
boy only made fun of him. He scolded him awful, and 
the boy covered his face with his hands as though he 
were crying; but he was laughing. He was suspended 
from school for three days, and he returned worse and 
more impudent than before. Derossi said to him one 
day: “Stop it! Don’t you see how much the teacher 
suffers?” And the other threatened to stick a nail into 
his stomach. But this morning he was suddenly 
thrown out like a dog. While the master was giving 
to Garrone the rough draft of “The Sardinian Drum- 
mer-boy,” the monthly story for January, to copy, he 
threw a petard on the floor, which exploded, making 
the schoolroom resound as from a discharge of mus- 
ketry. The whole class was startled by it. The 
teacher sprang to his feet, and cried: 

“Franti, leave the school!” 

The latter retorted: “It wasn’t I;” but he 
laughed. 

The master repeated: “Go!” 

“I won’t move!” he answered. 

Finally the teacher lost his temper, and ran at the 
boy, grabbed him by the arms, and jerked him from 



“After teaching school thirty years!” he exclaimed, 
sorrowfully, shaking his head. Not a sound was 
heard. His hands were trembling with ftiry, and the 
perpendicular wrinkle in’ the middle of his forehead 
was so deep that it resembled a cut. Poor teacher! 
All felt sorry for him. Derossi arose and said: “Mr. 
Teacher, do not be troubled. We love you." And 
then he became a little more tranquil, and said, “We 
will resume the lesson, boys.” 


io8 A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


his seat . He resisted, clenched his teeth, and made 
the teacher carry him out against his will. The 
teacher bore him thus, heavy as he was, to the prin- 
cipal. He soon came back to the schoolroom alone 
and sat down to his little table, with his head sup- 
ported by his hands; he was out of breath, gasp- 
ing, and with an expression of such sadness and 
trouble that it was painful to look at him. 


JANUARY 109 

THE SARDINIAN DRUMMER-BOY 

(THE MONTHLY STORY) 

During the first day of the battle of Custoza, on the 
24th of July, 1848, about sixty soldiers, of an infantry 
regiment of our army, who had been sent up a hill to 
occupy a lonely house, found themselves attacked 
unawares by two companies of Austrian soldiers, who, 
firing upon them from various directions, barely gave 
them time to fly to the house and to obstruct the 
doors, after leaving behind on the field several dead 
and wounded. Having stopped the ground and first 
floors, they commenced firing thick volleys at their 
enemy, who, gradually coming nearer and ranging in 
a semicircle, made vigorous reply. Two subordinate 
officers and a captain, a tall, slim, stern old man, with 
white hair and mustache, commanded the sixty Italian 
soldiers. A little Sardinian drummer-boy, of a little 
over fourteen years but looking not more than twelve, 
was with them. He was small, had an olive-brown 
complexion, and two little deep, sparkling eyes. The 
captain directed the defence from a room on the first 
floor, launching commands that seemed like pistol- 
shots, without a sign of agitation on his strong counte- 
nance. The drummer-boy, whose face was pale, but 
strong on his legs, had leaped upon a table, and was 
holding fast to the wall and stretching out his neck in 
order to gaze out of the windows, and through the 
smoke on the field he saw the white uniforms of the 
Austrians, who were slowly advancing. The house 
was situated at the top of a deep incline, and on the 
side of the slope it had but one high window, which 
looked like a little attic on the roof; therefore the 
Austrians did not threaten the house from that quarter. 


no 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


and the slope was free ; the fire struck only upon the 
front and the two ends. But it was a fierce fire, a 
hailstorm of leaden bullets, which tore the walls on the 
outside, ground the tiles to powder, and the inside of 
the house, with its cracked ceilings, also the furniture, 
windows and door-frames, sending pieces of wood fly- 
ing through the air, and clouds of plaster and rem- 
nants of kitchen utensils and glass, whizzing and 
rebounding and breaking everything with a noise like 
the crushing of a skull. Every now and then one of 
the soldiers who was firing from the windows fell 
heavily back to the floor and was dragged to one side. 
Others were tottering from room to room, pressing 
their hands on their wounds. There was already one 
dead body in the kitchen, with its forehead split 
open. 

The semicircle of the enemy came nearer together. 
At a certain point the captain, who had been until then 
impassive, was seen to make a motion of uneasiness, 
and to leave the room with long steps, followed by a 
sergeant. In a few minutes the sergeant came back 
on a run and summoned the drummer-boy, making 
him a sign to follow. The lad followed him quickly 
up the wooden staircase, and entered with him into a 
bare attic, where he saw the captain leaning against 
the little window and writing with a pencil on a sheet 
of paper. On the floor at his feet lay the well-rope. 
Folding the sheet of paper as he fixed his cold gray 
eyes, which made all the soldiers tremble, on the boy, 
the captain said bluntly : 

“Drummer!” 

The drummer-boy raised his hand to his visor. The 
captain said: 

“Have 3^ou any nerve?” 


JANUARY 


III 


The boy’s eyes glittered. “Yes, captain,” he 
answered. 

“Look yonder,” said the captain, pushing him to the 
window; “on the plain, near the houses of Villifranca, 
where there is a glitter of bayonets. There our 
troopes stand motionless. Take this message, tie the 
rope around you, from the window descend that slope 
— in a flash get across the fields, arrive at our men, 
and give the note to the first officer you see. Take 
off your belt and knapsack.” 

The drummer-boy took off his belt and knapsack and 
put the note into his breast pocket; the sergeant threw 
the rope out of the window, holding one end of it tight 
in his hands, while the captain assisted the lad to climb 
out of the little window, with his back turned to the 
open country. 

“Now look out!” he said; “our safety depends upon 
your courage and your legs.” 

“Trust to me, Mr. Captain,” answered the drum- 
mer-boy, letting himself down. 

“Bend over on the slope,” said the captain, holding 
on to the rope with the sergeant. 

“Never fear!” 

“God help you!” 

In a few moments the drummer-boy had been low- 
ered to the ground ; the sergeant pulled back the rope 
and disappeared; the captain stepped suddenly and 
with force in front of the window and saw the boy 
fleeing down the slope. He was already hoping that 
he had succeeded in escaping without being noticed by 
the enemy, when five or six little puffs of powder 
which rose from the earth all around the boy warned 
him that he had been seen by the Austrians, who were 
firing down upon him from the top of the elevation; 


II2 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


these little clouds were thrown into the air by the 
bullets. But the drummer continued to run at a 
great speed. When all of a sudden he fell to the 
earth. 

“He is killed!” yelled the captain, biting his fist. 
But he had hardly spoken the word when he saw the 
boy jump up again. “Ah, he has only stumbled,” he 
said to himself, drawing a breath of relief. 

The drummer, in fact, set out again as fast as his 
legs would carry him ; but he limped. “He has turned 
his ankle,” thought the captain. The powder and 
smoke still continued to gather near the boy, but he 
seemed to get away from it. * “He is safe!” the cap- 
tain uttered with shouts of joy. But he continued to 
follow him with his eyes, trembling because there was 
no time to be lost ; if he did not arrive yonder in the 
shortest possible time with that message which called 
for instant help, either all his soldiers would be killed 
or he should be obliged to surrender himself to the 
enemy. 

The boy ran rapidly for a short distance, then slack- 
ened his pace and limped, then resumed his course, 
but grew constantly more fatigued, and every little 
while he stumbled and paused. “Perhaps a bullet has 
grazed him,” thought the captain, and he noted all his 
movements, trembling with excitement ; he encouraged 
him, he spoke to him, as though he could hear him ; 
he kept on counting the distance with a flashing eye 
between the fleeing boy and that gleam of arms which 
he could see in the distance on the plain amid the 
fields of grain gilded by the sun. 

In the meantime he heard the whistle and the crash 
of the bullets in the lower room, the commanding and 
angry shouts of the sergeants and the officers, the 


JANUARY 


113 

dreadful laments of the wounded, the ruin of furni- 
ture, and the fall of rubbish. 

“On! Courage!” he shouted, following the far-off 
drummer with his glance. “Goon! Fly! He stops, 
that cursed boy! Ah, he has started again!” 

One of the officers came, all out of breath, to tell him 
that the enemy, never stopping their fire, were wav- 
ing out a white flag to hint at a surrender. 

“Don’t make them believe you hear them!” he 
cried, without taking his eyes from the boy, who was 
already on the pldin, but who was no longer running, 
and who seemed hardly able to walk. 

“Go! Run!” said the captain, clenching his teeth 
and his fists; “let them kill you; die, you rascal, but 
go!” He was heard to utter a terrible curse. “Ah! 
the infamous poltroon! he has sat down!” 

In fact, the boy, whose head he had until now been 
able to see projecting above a field of grain, had once 
more disappeared as though he had fallen ; but, after 
a minute, his head came into sight again ; at last it was 
lost behind the hedges, and the captain saw it no 
more. 

Then he descended, with a terrible force ; the bul- 
lets were coming thick and heavy; the rooms were 
packed with the wounded, some of whom were whirl- 
ing round like drunken men, and grasping at the fur- 
niture; while the walls and floor were stained with 
blood ; bodies lay across the doorways, the lieutenant 
had had his arm pierced by a ball, and the smoke and 
clouds of dust enwrapped everything. 

‘Courage!” shouted the captain. “Stand firm at 
your post! Help is coming fast, so hold on to your 
courage for a little while longer!” 

The Austrians had advanced nearer because their 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


114 

contorted faces could be seen through the smoke, and 
among the roar of the firing their brutal and offensive 
shouts could be heard as they yelled insulting remarks 
such as they suggested a surrender, and threatened a 
slaughter. Some soldiers were terror-stricken and 
jumped back from the windows; the sergeants drove 
them back again. But the fire of the defence slack- 
ened; discouragement made its appearance on ah 
faces. It was impossible to oppose the resistance 
longer. 

At a given moment the fire of the Austrians slack- 
ened, and a thundering voice shouted, first in German 
and then in Italian, “Surrender!” 

“No!” howled the captain from a window. 

And the firing commenced once more, fast and 
furious on both sides. More soldiers fell. Already 
more than one window had become vacant on account 
of the loss of soldiers. The fatal moment was near at 
hand. The captain shouted through his teeth in a 
choking voice: “They are not coming! they are not 
coming!” and rushed madly about, twisting his sword 
about in his tightly-closed hand, and resolved to die ; 
when a sergeant rushed down from the attic and 
uttered a piercing shout: “They are coming!” 

“They are coming!” repeated the captain, with a 
cry of joy. 

At that cry all, well and wounded, sergeants and 
officers, rushed to the windows, and the resistance 
became violent once more. Shortly after a kind of 
uncertainty was evident, and disorder prevailed among 
the enemy. In a moment the captain hastily collected 
a little troop in the room on the main floor, in order to 
make a rush with fixed bayonets. He again flew 
upstairs. Hardly had he arrived there when they 



PRESENTLY A SHORT, STOUT MILITARY SURGEON IN HIS SHIRT- 
SLEEVES PASSED 


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JANUARY 


heard a hasty trampling of feet, accompanied by a 
deafening hurrah. He noticed from the windows the 
two-pointed hats of the Italian carbineers running 
forward through the smoke, a squadron rushing for- 
ward at great speed, and the glittering blades were 
flashing in the air, as they fell on heads, on shoulders, 
and on backs. Then the troops sprand out of the 
door, with bayonets lowered; the enemy wavered, 
were thrown into confusion. They soon retreated, the 
house was free, and a little later two battalions of 
Italian infantry and two cannon occupied the house 
with its surroundings. 

The captain regained his regiment with the remain- 
ing soldiers, and was slightly wounded in the left hand 
by a bullet on the rebound, in the final assault with 
bayonets. 

The day finished with the victory on our side. The 
next day the fight began again, the Italians were sub- 
dued by overwhelming numbers of the Austrians, in 
spite of the hard fight they made, and on the morning 
of the 27th they sadly retreated towards the Mincio. 

The captain, even though wounded, made the march 
on foot with his soldiers, weary and silent, and arrived 
just as the sun was setting at Goito, on the Mincio. 
He immediately looked around for his lieutenant, who 
had been picked up with his arm shattered, by our 
ambulance corps, and who must have arrived before 
him. He was directed to a church where the field 
hospital had been installed in haste. Thither he 
betook himself. The church was packed with 
wounded soldiers who were formed up in two lines of 
beds and lying on mattresses spread on the floor; two 
doctors and a great many nurses went around caring 
for the wounded, and they were kept very busy ; and 


ii6 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


suppressed cries and groans were audible. No sooner 
had the captain entered than he halted and cast a 
glance around in search of his officer. Just at that 
moment he heard some one calling him in a delicate 
voice: “Signor Captain!” He looked round, and saw 
it was his drummer-boy lying on a little cot bed with a 
coarse window curtain covered to the neck ; it was in 
red and white squares, and his arms on the outside, 
pale and thin, but with eyes which flashed like black 
gems. 

“Are you here?” asked the captain, astonished, but 
extended over the coverlet looked abruptly. “Bravo! 
You did your duty.” 

“I did all that I could,” answered the drummer-boy. 

“Were you wounded?” said the captain, his eyes 
searching for his officer in the beds. 

“One could not expect otherwise,” said the lad, who 
got courage by speaking, expressing the proud satis- 
faction of having been wounded for the first time, 
without which he would not have dared to open his 
mouth before the captain. “I had a fine run, all bent 
over, but they instantly saw me. I would have 
arrived twenty minutes earlier if they had not hit me. 
Luckily, I soon met a captain of the staff, to whom I 
delivered the note. But it was hard work to descend 
after that caress ! I was dying for want of water, and 
fearing lest I should never arrive there. I cried with 
rage at the thought that every moment of delay another 
man was setting out yonder for the other world. 
Enough! I did what I could. I am satisfied. But, 
captain, with your permission, look to yourself, for 
you are losing blood.” 

In fact, from the captain’s badly-bandaged hand 
several drops of blood had trickled down his fingers. 


JANUARY 


117 


‘‘Would you like to -have me tighten your bandage, 
captain? Hold it down here a minute.” 

The captain held out his left hand, and stretched 
out his right to assist the lad to untie the knot and to 
fasten it again ; but the boy had no sooner raised him- 
self from his pillow that he turned pale and was 
obliged to lay his head down once more. 

“Never mind! never mind!” said the captain, look- 
ing at him and withdrawing his bandaged hand, which 
the lad tried to retain. “Attend to your own affairs 
instead of thinking of others, for things that are not 
serious will become so if neglected. ’ ’ 

The drummer-boy shook his head. 

‘ ‘ But you, ’ ’ said the captain, regarding him closely, 
“must have lost a great amount of blood to be as 
weak as you are.” 

“Lost much blood!” replied the boy, smiling. 
“Something besides blood. Look here!” And he 
drew aside the coverlet with one movement. 

The captain stepped back in horror. The poor boy 
had but one leg. His left leg had been amputated 
above the knee; the stump was swathed in blood- 
stained cloths. 

Presently a short, stout military surgeon passed in . 
his shirt-sleeves. “Ah, captain,” he said, rapidly, 
nodding towards the drummer, “this is an unfortunate 
case ; there is a leg that might have been saved if he 
had not exerted himself in such a crazy manner — 
that caused inflammation. It had to be cut off away 
up here. - Oh, but he has courage, I can assure you. 
He never wept nor uttered a cry ! During the opera- 
tion the surgeon was proud about the lad being 
Italian. To be sure, he comes of a good race, by 
heavens!” And away he went, on a run. 


ii8 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


The captain frowned at the drummer-boy, he spread 
the coverlet over him again, and slowly, then, as 
though having lost his senses but still gazing intently 
at the boy, he raised his hand to his head and lifted 
his cap. 

“Signor Captain!” exclaimed the boy, in astonish- 
ment. “What are you doing, captain? To me!” 



And then that rough soldier, who had never said a 
gentle word to an officer under him, replied in an 
indescribably sweet and affectionate voice: “I am only 
a captain ; you are a hero. ’ ’ 

Then he threw himself with widespread arms upon 
the drummer-boy and kissed him three times upon the 
heart. 


JANUARY 


119 


THE LOVE OF COUNTRY 

Tuesday, the 24th. 

It should be easy this morning, since the story 
of the drummer boy has gone to your heart, to do your 
composition for examination well. Why do you love 
Italy? Why do I love Italy? Do not a hundred 
answers come instantly to you? I love Italy because 
my mother is an Italian ; because the dead whom my 
mother mourns and whom my father esteems are 
buried on Italian soil; because the city where I was 
born, the language that I speak, the books that edu- 
cate me, because my brother, my sister, my friends, 
the great people among whom I live, and the beauti- 
ful nature which surrounds me, and all that I see, that 
I love, that I study, that I admire, is Italian. 

Oh, you cannot yet feel that perfect affection. 
When you are a man you will feel it ; upon returning 
from a long journey, after a long absence, you come 
up in the morning to the parapet of the ship and see 
on the far-away horizon the great blue mountains of 
your country; you will feel it then in the violent flood 
of tenderness which will make you weep and will 
wrench a sob from your heart. You will feel it in 
some large, far-away city, in that impulse of the soul 
which will push you forward among a strange crowd 
towards one unknown workingman from whom you 
have heard, in passing a word in your own tongue. 
You will feel it in that sad and proud anger which will 
make the blood rush to your brow when you hear a 
stranger casting slurs upon your country. You will 
feel it loftier and more violent on the day when from 
the menace of the enemy a tempest of fire arises upon 
your country, and when you shall see on every 


120 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


side youths thronging in scores, fathers kissing their 
children and saying, “Courage!” mothers bidding 
good-bye to their young sons and crying, “Conquer!” 
You will feel it like a divine happiness if you are for- 
tunate in beholding the re-entrance to your city of the 
thinned regiments, weary, ragged, terrible, with the 
splendor of victory in their eyes, and their flags torn 
by bullets, followed by a great escort of brave fellows, 
carrying their bandaged heads and their stumps of 
arms proudly amid an enthusiastic crowd, which 
showers them with flowers, blessings and kisses. 
Then you will comprehend the love of country; then 
you will learn how to appreciate your country, Enrico. 
It is a grand and sacred thing. May I one day see 
your safe return from a battle fought for it, you safe, 
who are my flesh and soul ; but if I should hear that 
you have preserved your life because you were con- 
cealed from the death, your father, who welcomes you 
with a cry of joy when you return from school, will 
receive you with a cry of sorrow, and I shall never be 
able to love you again, and I shall die with that dag- 
ger in my heart. 

Thy Father. 


ENVY 


Wednesday, the 25th. 

It was Derossi, as usual, who wrote the best compo- 
sition of all on our country; and Votini who thought 
sure he would get the first medal. I would like Votini 
well enough were he not so vain and so particular about 
his appearance. And now that I sit next to him on the 
bench I have noticed how envious he is of Derossi, for 
which I dislike him. He would like to compete with 


JANUARY 


I2I 


him ; he studies hard, but cannot succeed by any pos- 
sibility, for Derossi is ten times more intelligent on 
every subject than he is, and Votini bites his fingers 
from jealousy. Carlo Nobis also envies him, but is 
proud that he will not allow it to be noticed. Votini 
instead betrays himself; he complains of the marks he 
received in school at home, and says that the teacher 
does not treat him right. When Derossi replies so 
readily and so well to questions, as he always does, 
his face becomes cloudy, he hangs his head, pretends 
not to hear or tries to laugh, but his laugh is malignant. 
And so every one knows about it, and no sooner does 
the teacher praise Derossi than they all turn to look at 
Votini, who chokes down his spite and the little mason 
makes a hare’s face at him. This morning, for exam- 
ple, matters did not go his way. The teacher entered 
the room and announced the result of the examina- 
tion, — “Derossi, ten-tenths, and the first medal.” 

Votini sneezed loudly. The teacher glanced at him 
and was not long in understanding the reason. 

“Votini,” he said, “do not let the serpent of envy 
enter your body; it is a serpent which gnaws at the 
brain and corrupts the heart. ’ ’ 

All except Derossi stared at him. Votini tried to 
reply, but could not ; he sat there as though turned to 
stone, and with a white face. Then, while the teacher 
conducted the lesson, he began to write in large 
characters on a sheet of paper: “I am not envious of 
those who are rewarded the first medal through 
favoritism and injustice.” It was a note which he 
meant to send to Derossi. 

Meanwhile, I noticed that Derossi’s neighbors were 
plotting among themselves, and whispering in each 
other’s ears, and one cut out with a penknife from 


122 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


paper a big medal on which they had drawn a black 
serpent. But Votini never noticed this. The teacher 
left the room for a few moments. Derossi’s neighbors 
suddenly arose and left their seats, so as to come and 
solemnly present the paper medal to Votini. The 
whole class was prepared for a scene. Votini had 
already begun to tremble all over. Derossi shouted : 
“Give me that!’’ “Very well, that is better,’’ they 
answered; “you are the one who should carry it.’’ 

Taking the paper medal, Derossi tore it into bits. 
At that moment the teacher came back and resumed 
the lesson. I watched Votini, who had turned as red 
as fire. He picked up his sheet of paper very, very 
quietly, as though absent-minded, rolled it into a ball, 
slyly put it into his mouth, chewed it a little, and then 
spit it out under the bench. Upon leaving school that 
day, Votini, who was a little confused, let his blotting 
paper fall as he passed Derossi. Derossi politely 
picked it up, put in in his school bag and helped him 
to buckle the straps. Votini dared not raise his eyes. 

FRANTI’S MOTHER 

Saturday, the 28th. 

But Votini is incorrigible. Yesterday morning, 
during the lesson on religion, in the presence of the 
head-master, the teacher asked Derossi if he knew by 
heart the two couplets in the reading-book, — 

“ Where’er I turn my gaze 
’Tis Thee, great God, I see.” 

.Derossi replied that he did not know them, and 
Votini suddenly exclaimed, smiling: “I do!’’ as though 
to pique Derossi. Instead, he was piqued himself, for 
he could not recite the poetry, being interrupted by 



THE POOR WOMAN THREW HERSELF ALMOST ON HER KNEES P.EFORE 

THE PRINCIPAL 






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JANUARY 


123 


Franti’s mother, who rushed suddenly into the school- 
room, breathless, all wet with snow, hergray hair di- 
sheveled and pushing before her her son, who had been 
suspended from school for a week. What a sad scene 
we were obliged to witness ! The poor woman threw 
herself almost on her knees before the principal, with 
clasped hands, and entreated him : 

‘Oh, Mr. Director, do me the favor to take my boy 
back in school ! For three days he has been at home, 
out of his father’s way. For God have mercy on him 
should he hear about this affair ; he will kill him ! 
Have pity! I no longer know what to do! I implore 
you with my whole soul!” 

The principal endeavored to lead her out, but she 
resisted, continuing to pray and to weep. 

“Oh, if you but knew the sorrow that this boy has 
given me, you would have pity ! Do me this favor ! I 
trust that he will be good. I shall not live long, Mr. 
Director; I bear death within me; but I should like to 
see him reformed before my death, because” — and she 
broke down weeping — “he is my son. I love him. 
I should die of despair! Take him back once more, 
Mr. Director, and prevent a misfortune from arising 
in the family! Take pity on a poor woman and let 
him return.” And she sobbed, hiding her face with 
her hands. 

Franti stood impassive, and hung his head. The 
principal looked at him, thought a while, then said: 

“Franti, go to your place.” 

The woman then uncovered her face, quite consoled, 
and commenced expressing thanks upon thanks, with- 
out giving the director a chance to say a word, and 
started toward the door, wiping her eyes and saying 
hastily : 


124 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


“I beg of you, my son — Thanks, Mr. Director, you 
have done a merciful deed. — Be a good boy. — Good- 
day, boys. — Thanks, Mr. Teacher; good-bye, and for- 
give a poor mother.” And after casting another 
supplicating glance at her son from the door, she left, 
pulling up the shawl which was dragging after her, pale, 
bent, with her head still trembling, and we could hear 
her coughing all the way down the stairs. The prin- 
cipal gazed fixedly at Franti, amid the silence of the 
class, and said to him in a tone of a kind to make him 
tremble: “Franti, you are killing your mother!” 

We all turned to look at Franti, and that infamous 
boy smiled. 


HOPE 

Sunday, the 29th. 

Very beautiful, Enrico, was the impetuosity with 
which you threw yourself on your mother’s heart upon 
returning from your lesson of religion. Yes, your 
teacher told you grand and consoling things. God, 
who has thrown us into each other’s arms, will never 
separate us. When I die, when your father dies, we 
shall not speak to each other these despairing words : 
“Mamma, papa, Enrico, I shall never see you again!” 

We shall see each other once more in another world, 
where he who has suffered much in this life will get 
compensation; where he who has loved in a world 
without sin, without sorrow, and with death. But we 
must all render ourselves worthy of that other life. 
Listen, my son. Every good deed you perform, every 
movement of affection for those who love you, every 
kind act towards your friends, every noble thought of 
yours, is like a leap upward towards that other world. 


JANUARY 


125 


And every misfortune also helps to raise you towards 
heaven, every sorrow, for every sorrow is the fee of a 
sin, every tear casts out a stain. Make it your motto 
to become better and more loving every day than the 
day before. Repeat in the morning, “To-day I will 
do something for which my conscience will praise me, 
and with which I will please my father, something 
which will make me beloved by my schoolmates, 
teacher, broth- 
er, and by all 
others. And 
pray to God to 
give you the 
strength to put 
your resolution 
into practice. 

Lord, I wish to 
be good, noble, 
brave, gentle, 
sincere ; grant 
that when my 
mother has 
pressed upon 
my lips the last 
kiss for the 
night I will truly be able to say, ‘Mother, you have 
kissed to-night a nobler and better boy than you kissed 
last night. ’ ’ ’ 

Bear in mind the heavenly and ever happy Enrico 
you will be in the other world. And pray. You can- 
not imagine how happy you will be and how much 
better a mother feels when she sees her child with 
hands clasped in prayer. When I watch you praying, 
it seems impossible to me that there should not be 



126 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


some one there gazing at you and listening to you. 
Then I realize more firmly that that there is a supreme 
goodness and an infinite pity; I love you more, I work 
with more ardor, I endure with more force, I forgive 
with all my heart, and I think of death with happy 
thoughts. O great and good God! 

To hear once more, after I have gone to heaven, the 
voice of my mother, to meet my children again, to see 
my Enrico once more, my Enrico, blessed and 
immortal, and to clasp him in an embrace which shall 
never more be loosed, nevermore, nevermore to all 
eternity! 

Oh, pray ! let us pray ; let us love each other, let us 
be good, let us bear this heavenly hope in our hearts 
and souls, my beloved child. 



THE EVENING PRAYER 


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FEBRUARY 


A MEDAL WELL BESTOWED 

Saturday, the 4th. 

The superintendent of the schools, a fine looking 
man with a beard and who wore a suit of black this 
morning, came to award the medals. He asked some 
a few questions, then presented the first medal to 
Derossi, and before awarding the second he remained 
for a few moments silent and listening to the attentive 
teacher and the principal, who were talking to him in 
a low voice. All were consulting themselves. “To 
which boy will he give the second?” Finally the 
superintendent spoke : 

“Pupil Pietro Precossi has won the second medal 
this week. He has deserved it, by his work at home, 
by his lessons, his handwriting and his conduct in 
every way.” 

The boys all looked around at Precossi, and the 
whole class seemed pleased he had won it. Precossi 
jumped up from his seat and stepped up to the mas- 
ter’s table. The superintendent looked steadily at 
that little waxen face, at that sickly body wrapped in 
turned and ill-fitting garments, at those kind, sad 
eyes, which avoided his, but which told a tale of suffer- 
ing; then he said to him, in a voice full of affection, 
as he pinned the medal on his shoulder: 

“I give you the medal Precossi. No one is more 
worthy to wear it than you. I give it to you alone for 

12 ^ 


128 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


your intelligence, and your will ; I bestow it on your 
heart, I give it to your courage, to your character of a 
brave and good son. Is it not true,” he added, look- 
ing at the class, ‘‘that he deserves it also on that 
score?” 

‘‘Yes, yes!” they all answered at once. 

Precossi made a movement of the throat as though 
he were swallowing something, and he cast a smile of 
contentment to all his classmates. 

‘‘Go, my dear boy,” said the superintendent; ‘‘and 
may God protect you!” 

It was time for school to be out, and our class got 
out before the others. We no sooner got out of the 
door when we saw in the large hall just at the 
entrance the father of Precossi, the blacksmith, pale 
and thin, with fierce face, hair hanging over his eyes, 
his cap to the one side of his head and unsteady on his 
legs. The teacher saw him immediately, and whis- 
pered to the superintendent. The latter looked for 
Precossi quickly, and taking him by the hand, he led 
him to his father. The boy was trembling. The boy 
and the superintendent approached; many boys col- 
lected around them. 

‘‘Is it true that you are the father of this boy?” 
asked the superintendent of the blacksmith, with 
cheerful air, as though they were friends. And, with- 
out awaiting a reply: ‘‘I rejoice with you. Look! he 
has won the second medal over fifty-four of his com- 
rades. He has earned it by his composition, his arith- 
metic, everything. He is a boy of knowledge and 
good will, who will accomplish great things; a fine 
boy, who is loved by all. You may feel proud of him, 
I assure you. ’ ’ 

The blacksmith, who had stood there with his mouth 


FEBRUARY 


129 

wide open, listening to him, stared at the superintend- 
ent and the principal, and then looked at his son, who 
stood in front of him with his eyes cast down and 
trembling; and as though he had just at that moment 
remembered and under- 
stood for the first time 
that he always was a 
good and constant boy 
to his parents. He dis- 
played in his counte- 
nance a certain stupid 
wonder, then his con- 
science smote him and 
finally a sorrowful and 
impetuous tenderness, 
and with a rapid ges- 
ture he caught the boy 
round the head and 
pressed him to his 
breast. We all passed 
before them. I invited 
him to come to the 
house on Thursday with 
Gar rone and Crossi; 
others saluted him, one patted him on the shoulder, 
another touched his medal, not one passed without 
saying something, and his father stared at us in amaze- 
ment, as he still held his son’s head pressed to his 
breast, while the boy sobbed. 

GOOD RESOLUTIONS 

Sunday, the 5th. 

A remorse has roused within me since that medal 
was awarded to Precossi. I have never earned one. 



130 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


Lately I have not been studying, and I am dissatisfied 
with myself, and the teacher, my father and mother 
displeased with me. I no more feel the same fondness 
for amusing myself that I did formerly, when I 
worked with a will, and then jumped up from the table 
and ran joyfully to my playthings as if I had not 
played for a month. I do not even sit down to the table 
with my family with the same happiness as of old. 
Something like a shadow is in my soul, a voice within 
me that .says to me repeatedly, “It won’t do; it won’t 
do.” 

In the evening I see a great many boys returning 
home from work pass through the square. A group 
of tired but happy workingmen are among them, and 
they step quickly along, impatient to reach their 
homes and suppers, and they talked loudly, laughing 
and clapping one another on the shoulder with hands 
blackened with coal, or whitened with plaster; and I 
reflect that they have been working from the break of 
day until this late hour. Also many others are with 
them who are still and who have been standing all 
day on the roof-tops, in front of ovens, among 
machines, and in the water, and underground, with 
nothing to eat but a little bread ; and I feel almost 
ashamed, I who in such a long time have scribbled 
only four small pages, and that unwillingly. Ah! I 
am dissatisfied, dissatisfied. I have plainly noticed 
that my father is not in a good humor, and would like 
to tell me so; but has not' done so yet, as he dislikes 
telling me. My dear father, who works so hard ! all 
belongs to you, all that is in the house, all that I 
touch, all that I wear and eat, all that educates and 
amuses me, — all is the frdit of your toil, and I do not 
work; all has cost you worry, privations, trouble. 


FEBRUARY 


131 

work; and I make no attempt. Ah, no! this is too 
unjust, and gives me too much pain. I will start this 
very day ; I will study hard, like Stardi, with clenched 
fists and set teeth. I will do it with a stronger will 
and heart. I will conquer my sleepiness in the even- 
ing, I will arise earlier in the morning, I will unceas- 
ingly cudgel my brains, and I will chastise my laziness 
without mercy, toiling, suffering, even making myself 
ill from it. But I will end this weak and disgusting 
life, which is debasing me and grieving others. 
Courage ! To work ! To work with all my soul, and 
all my nerves! To work, which will restore to me 
sweet repose, pleasing games, happy meals ! To work, 
which will give me back again the good smile of my 
teacher, the blessed kiss of my father! 


THE ENGINE 

Friday, the loth. 

Both Precossi and Garrone visited us to-day. I 
think that had they been two sons of princes they 
could not have been received with greater warmth. 
This is the first time that Garrone has been here, 
because he is rather shy, and then he is ashamed to 
show himself because he is so large, and is still in the 
third grade. When they rang the bell we all went to 
meet them. Cross! could not come. He had to stay 
home because his father has at last arrived from 
America, after staying away seven years. My mother 
kissed Precossi at once. My father introduced Gar- 
rone to her, saying: 

“Look here ! This lad is not only good; he is a man 
of honor and a gentleman.” 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


132 

And the boy dropped his big, shaggy head, with a 
smile at me. Precossi wore his medal to-day, and he 
was very happy, because his father has started to work 
again and has not been under the influence of liquor 
for five days. His father is a changed man now, and 
he always wants his son in the workshop to keep him 
company. 

We began to play, and I displayed all my toys. 
Precossi was overjoyed with my train of cars, with the 
engine that goes of itself on being wound up. He 
never saw anything like it before, and he gazed con- 
tinually at the little red and yellow cars. He got 
down on his knees to play, and did not raise his head 
again. I have never seen him so happy. He kept 
repeating, “Pardon me, pardon me,” to everything, 
and motioning to us with his hands that we should not 
stop the engine ; and then he picked it up and replaced 
the cars with great care, as if they had been made of 
gold. He was afraid of spoiling them with his breath, 
and he polished them up again, looking at them from 
top to bottom, and grinning to himself. We all stood 
around him and stared at him. We looked at that 
slender neck, those poor little ears, which I had seen 
bleeding one day, and the coat with the sleeves turned 
up, from which two puny little arms had been 
uplifted to keep off blows from his face. Oh ! at that 
moment I could have cast all my playthings and all 
my books at his feet. I could have taken the last 
particle of bread from my lips to give to him. I could 
have stripped myself of my clothing to cover him, I 
could have thrown myself on my knees to kiss his 
hand. “I will at least give you the train,” I thought; 
“but I have to ask my father.” Just then I felt a bit 
of paper thrust into my hand. I opened it, and my 


FEBRUARY 


133 


father had written it. “Precossi is satisfied with your 
train. He has no playthings. Does your heart sug- 
gest nothing to you?’* 

At that moment I picked up the train of cars 
quickly and placed it all in his arms, saying: “Take 
this; it is yours.” He gazed at mein astonishment. 
“It is yours,” I said; “you can have it.” 

Then he looked at my father and mother in still 
greater bewilderment, and asked me : 

“Why do you give it to me?” 

My father said for me: “Enrico gives it to you 
because he is your friend, because he loves you — also 
a little present because you won the medal. ’ ’ 

Precossi asked bashfully: “May I take it home?” 

“Of course!” we all answered. 

He was happy! He asked our pardon with a mouth 
that smiled and quivered. Garrone helped him to 
wrap up the train in a handkerchief, and as he bent 
over, he made the things in his pockets rattle. Some 
day,” said Precossi to me, “you shall come to the shop 
to see my father at work. I will give you some nails. ’ ’ 

My mother pinned a bunch of flowers in Garrone’s 
buttonhole, for him to carry to his mother in her 
name, and Garrone said: “Thank you,” in his big 
voice, without lifting his chin from his breast. But 
all his kind and noble soul shone in his eyes. 

PRIDE 

Saturday, the nth. 

And to think that Carlo Nobis rubs off his sleeve 
with affection, when Preqossi touches him in passing ! 
That fellow is pride incarnate because his father is a 
rich man. But Derossi has a rich father too. Carlo 


134 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


Nobis would like to have a bench all to himself, for he 
fears the others will soil it ; he gazes at the clothes 
everybody wears, and always has a disdainful smile on 
his lips. Let him beware who stumbles over his foot, 
when we go out in files two by two! For nothing at 
all he insults you to your face, or threatens to have his 
father come to the school. And sure enough, his 
father did give him a good lesson when he called the 
coal-man’s son a ragamuffin. 

I have never seen a schoolboy with such an ugly 
disposition. No one ever speaks to' him, no one says 
good-bye to him when he leaves. Not even a dog 
would give him a suggestion when he does not know 
his lesson. He cannot bear any one, and pretends to 
hate Derossi more than all, because he is the most 
intelligent of the class; and Garrone also, because 
every one loves him. But Derossi does not even look 
at him when he is by; and when the boys repeat to 
Garrone the mean things that Nobis has told them, he 
says: “He has such foolish pride that he does not even 
deserve getting a slap on the head from me.’* But 
Coretti said to him one day, when he was smiling 
scornfully at his catskin cap: “Go to Derossi for a 
while, from whom you will learn how to be the gen- 
tleman!’’ 

He complained to the teacher yesterday because the 
Calabrian boy touched his leg with his foot. The 
teacher questioned the Calabrian: 

“Did you do it purposely?’’ 

“No, sir,’’ he answered, frankly. 

“You are too cross, Nobis.’’ 

And Nobis said, in his haughty manner: “I shall 
tell my father about it. ’’ Whereupon the teacher got 
angry. 


FEBRUARY 


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“Your father will tell you that you are in the wrong, 
as he has on other occasions. And, besides, it is the 
teacher alone who has the right to judge and punish 
in school.” Then he added pleasantly: “Come, 
Nobis, change your ways ; be kind and good to your 
playmates. You see, we have here sons of the poor 
and the rich, and they all love each other and treat 
each other like brothers, as they are. Why can’t you 
be like the rest? It would not harm you to make 
every one like you, and you would be so much hap- 
pier yourself, too! Well, have you nothing to say to 
me?” 

Nobis, who had listened to him with his usual scorn- 
ful smile, answered coldly: 

“No, sir.” 

* ‘ Sit down, ’ ’ said the master to him. “You have my 
pity. You are a heartless boy.” 

This seemed to finish it all ; but the little mason, 
who sits on the front seat, turned his round face 
towards Nobis, who sits on the back bench, and made 
such a good but funny hare’s face at him, that the 
whole class burst out laughing. The master scolded 
him ; but he had to put his hand over his own mouth 
to hide a smile. And even Nobis laughed, but not in 
a pleased way. 

THE WOUNDS OF LABOR 

Monday, the 15th. 

Nobis and Franti are both well mated, for neither 
one nor the other was affected by the terrible sight 
which passed before our eyes this morning. 

After coming out of school, I was standing with my 
father looking at some big rascals of the second grade 


136 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


who were down on their knees rubbing the ice with 
their cloaks and caps, so as to slide faster, when we 
saw a crowd of people coming down the street at a 
quick pace, all serious and all seemingly terrified, and 
talking among themselves in low tones. Among them 
were three policemen, and behind the policemen two 
men carrying a litter. 

Boys gathered around from all directions. The 
crowd kept advancing towards us. Stretched on the 
litter was a man, white as a corpse, his head bent on 
his shoulder, and his hair tumbled and stained with 
blood, for he was losing blood from his mouth and 
ears. Walking beside the litter was a woman carrying 
a baby in her arms, and acting like a crazy woman. 
“He is dead! He is dead! He is dead!’’ 

A boy carrying a portfolio under his arm and sob- 
bing came behind the woman. 

“What has happened?’’ asked my father. A neigh- 
bor told us that the man was a mason, and had fallen 
while working from the fourth story. The bearers of 
the litter stood still for a moment. Many, horrified, 
turned away their faces. I saw the teacher who wears 
the red feather supporting my teacher of the upper 
first, who was riearly swooning. Just then some one 
touched me on the elbow ; it was the little mason, who 
was as white as a ghost and trembling from head to 
foot. He was certainly thinking of his father. I also 
was thinking of him. While I am in school my mind 
is at ease, for I know that my father is at home, seated 
at his table, safe from all danger ; still, how many of 
my schoolmates reflect that their fathers are at work 
on a very high bridge or close to the wheels of a 
machine, and that a movement, a false step, may cause 
their death! They are like so many soldiers’ sons 


FEBRUARY 


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whose fathers are in the battle. The little mason 
stared and stared, trembling more than ever, and my 
father, noticing, said: 

“Go home, my boy; go at once to your father, and 
you will find him safe and quiet. Go!” 

The little mason started on his way home, but 
stopped at every step. And all during this time the 
crowd began to move again, and the woman to shriek 
in a way that rent the heart : 

“He is dead! He is dead! He is dead!” 

“No! no; he is not dead,” all the people tried to 
tell her, but she would not listen, and tore her hair. 
Then I heard some one say in an angry voice, “You 
are laughing!” and just at that moment I saw a man 
with a beard looking straight at Franti. Then the 
man knocked his cap to the ground with his stick, say- 
ing: 

“Take off your hat, you* bad boy, when a man 
wounded by hard toil is passing by!” 

The crowd had all dispersed, and a long streak of 
blood was left in the middle of the street. 


THE PRISONER 

Friday, the 17th. 

Surely this is the most peculiar event of the whole 
year! Yesterday, early in the morning, my father 
took me to the suburbs of Mancallieri, to look at a villa 
which he thought of renting for the coming summer, 
because we shall not go to Chieri again this year, and 
it turned out that the person who had the keys was a 
teacher who acts as secretary to the owner. He 
showed us through the house and then he asked us to 


138 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


his own room, where he gave us something to drink. 
On his table, between the glasses, was a wooden ink- 
stand, shaped like a cone carved in a singular manner. 
The teacher, knowing my father was looking at it, 
said: 

“That inkstand is very precious to me: if you only 
knew, sir, the history of it.” And he told it. 

A few years ago he was a teacher at Turin, and for 
one winter he went to give lessons to the prisoners in 
the judicial prison. He gave the lessons in the little 
church of the prison, which is a round building with 
great high, bare walls, and a great many little square 
windows, covered with cross-bars of iron, and each 
one represented a little cell inside. He gave his les- 
sons as he walked about the dark, chilly chapel, and 
his scholars stood at the holes, with their faces in the 
dark. Some looked wan, some frowned, others with 
gray shaggy beards and staring eyes, which revealed 
the faces of murderers and thieves. There was one 
prisoner. No. 78, who was more attentive than all the 
others, and who studied a great deal, and always 
looked gratefully and with respect. He was a young 
man, with a black beard, more unfortunate than 
wicked, a cabinet-maker who, in a fit of anger, had 
thrown a plane at his master, who had been torment- 
ing him for quite a while, and had inflicted a fatal 
wound on his head. For this he had been confined to 
several years of seclusion. It took him only three 
months to learn to read and write, and was continually 
reading; the more he learned the better he seemed to 
become, and the more ashamed for his crime. One 
day, when the lesson was over, he motioned to the 
teacher that he should come close to his little window, 
and he told him that he was to leave Turin on the next 



HE PINNED THE MEDAL ON HIS SHOULDER 


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FEBRUARY 


^39 


day, to go and pay the penalty of his crime in the 
prison at V enice ; and as he said good-bye he begged 
in a humble and pleading voice that he might be 
allowed to touch the teacher’s hand. The teacher 
offered him his hand, which he kissed; then he said, 
“Thanks! thanks!” and disappeared. The teacher 
found his hand wet with tears. He never saw the 
man again after that. 

Six years went by. “My thoughts were anywhere 
except on that unfortunate man,” said the teacher, 
“when, the other morning, a stranger presented him- 
self at my house, a man with a large black beard 
already sprinkled with gray, and badly dressed, who 
said to me: ‘Are you the teacher So-and-So, sir?’ 
‘Who are you?’ I asked him. ‘I am prisoner No. 78,’ 
he replied; ‘you taught me to read and write six years 
ago ; if you remember you gave me your hand at the 
last lesson. I have now paid the penalty of my crime, 
and I have come here to beg you to do me the favor to 
accept a souvenir from me, a poor little thing which I 
made in prison. Will you accept it in remembrance of 
me. Signor Master?’ 

“I remained dumbfounded. He believed that I 
refused to take it, and looked at me as if to say, ‘So 
six years of suffering are not enough to cleanse my 
hands!’ but with such a strong expression of pain did 
he gaze at me, that I quickly put out my hand and 
took the little gift. This is it.” 

We looked carefully at the inkstand. It seemed as 
if it had been patiently carved with the point of a nail ; 
on its top was carved a pen lying across a copy-book, 
and around it was written, “To my teacher: a remem- 
brance of No. 78. Six years.” And below, in small 
letters, “Study and hope.” 


140 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


The teacher said nothing more. We took our depar- 
ture. But all the way from Moncalieri to Turin I 
could not get that prisoner, standing at his little win- 
dow, that farewell to his teacher, that poor inkstand 
made in prison, which reavealed so much, out of my 
mind, and I dreamed of them all night, and was even 
thinking of them this morning — and I never would 
imagine the surprise which awaited me at school ! I 
had just taken my new seat near Derossi, and written 
my problem in arithmetic for the monthly examina- 
tion, when I told my school chum the story of the 
prisoner and the inkstand and how the inkstand was 
made with the pen across the copy-book, and the 
inscription around it, “Six years!” Derossi jumped 
up at these words • and first stared at me and then at 
Crossi, the son of the vegetable- vender, who sat on the 
seat in front of us, with his back turned to us, his 
whole thoughts concentrated in his problems. 
“Hush!” he said; then in a low voice, grabbing me 
by the arm, “Don’t you know that Crossi spoke to me 
day before yesterday of having caught a glance of an 
inkstand in his father’s hands, who had just come back 
from America ; a conical inkstand, made by hand, with 
a copy-book and a pen? — that is the one; six years! 
He always told us his father was in America instead 
of that he was in prison. Crossi was a very small 
child when his father committed the crime ; he does 
not remember it; his mother has deceived him; he 
knows nothing; so don’t tell one word of this to any 
one. 

I remained, not able to speak, with my eyes fixed 
on Crossi. Derossi had just finished solving his prob- 
lem, and passed it under the bench to Crossi ; he gave 
him a sheet of paper; he took out of Crossi’s hands 


FEBRUARY 


141 

the monthly story, “Daddy’s Nurse,” which the 
teacher had told him to write in order that he might 
copy it in his stead ; he gave him pens, and patted him 
on the shoulder, and made me promise on my honor 
that I would say nothing to any one ; and when we 
left school, he said quickly to me : 

“His father came for him yesterday, and will be 
here again this morning; do as I do.” 

Going out into the street we saw Crossi’s father 
standing a little to one side ; a man with a black beard 
sprinkled with gray, poorly dressed, with a colorless 
and thoughtful face. Derossi shook Cros^i’s hand in a 
manner to draw attention, and said to him loudly, 
“Good-bye until we meet again, Crossi,” and passed 
his hand under his chin. I did likewise. But in 
doing so both Derossi and I turned scarlet; and 
Crossi’s father gazed attentively at us, with a kindly 
glance ; but through it shone an expression of uneasi- 
ness and suspicion which made our hearts grow cold. 


DADDY’S NURSE 
(THE MONTHLY STORY) 

On the morning of a rainy day in March a lad 
dressed as a peasant, all muddy and soaked with 
water, and carrying a bundle of clothes under his 
arm, presented himself to the janitor of the great hos- 
pital at Naples, and showing a letter, asked for his 
father. 

He had a fine oval face, of a pale-brown hue, 
thoughtful eyes, and two thick lips, always half open, 
displaying extremely white teeth. He came from a 


142 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


village in the environs of Naples. His father had left 
home a year before to find work in France, and had 
returned to Italy, arriving a few days ago at Naples, 
where, falling suddenly ill, he had barely time to write 
a line to let his family know of his arrival and to say 
that he was going to the hospital. 

His wife, afflicted at his news, and unable to leave 
Lome because she had a sick child, ^and a nursing 
baby, had sent her eldest son to Naples with a few 
cents to help his father — his “daddy,” as they say 
there. The boy had made the distance of ten miles 
on foot. Having glanced at the letter, the janitor 
summoned a nurse and told him to conduct the lad to 
his father. 

“What father?” inquired the nurse. 

The boy, trembling for fear of hearing bad news, 
uttered the name. The nurse did not recall such a 
name. 

“An old laborer, arrived from abroad?” he asked. 

“Yes, a laborer,” replied the lad, becoming 
uneasier; “not so very old. Arrived from abroad — 
yes.” 

“When did he enter the hospital?” asked the nurse. 

The lad glanced at his letter. “Five days ago, I 
believe. ’ ’ 

The nurse remained thoughtful for a moment; 
then, as if suddenly recalling him, he said, “Ah! in 
the fourth ward, the furthest bed.” 

“Is he very ill? How is he?” the boy asked, anx- 
iously. 

The nurse looked at him, and without replying, 
said, “Come with me.” 

Ascending two flights of stairs, they walked to the 
end of a long corridor, and found themselves facing 



STRK'lCHKl) OX THE LITTER WAS A MAN WHITE AS A CORPSE 





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FEBRUARY 


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the open door of a large hall, wherein were two rows 
of beds. 

“Come,” repeated the nurse, entering. 

The boy gained courage, and followed him, glancing 
terrified to the right and left on the pale, white, 
wasted faces of the sick people^ some of whom had 
their eyes closed, appearing dead, while others were 
gazing into the air, with their eyes staring and wide 
open as though frightened. Some were moaning like 
children. The big room was dark, the air was filled 
with a strange odor of medicines. Two sisters of 
charity were going about with phials in their hands. 

We arrived at the far end of the great room, the 
nurse stopped at the head of a bed, drew aside the 
curtains, and said, “Here is your sick father.” The 
boy burst into tears, and his little bundle fell from his 
hands. He dropped his head on the sick man’s 
shoulder, clasping with one hand the arm which was 
lying motionless on the coverlet, but the man did not 
move. 

The boy quickly jumped to his feet and looked at 
his father, and broke into another fit of weeping. 
Then the sick man gave a long look at him, and 
seemed to recognize him; but he could not speak. 
Poor daddy, how he was changed! The son would 
not have known him because his hair had become 
white, his beard had grown, his face was swollen, of a 
flushed red hue, with the skin tightly drawn, thick 
lips, and mostly every feature in his face had changed 
except the same natural forehead and arch of his eye- 
brows. His breathing came with difficulty. 

“Daddy! daddy!” said the boy; “it is I; don’t you 
know me? I am Cicillo, your own Cicillo. I have 
come way from the country; mamma has sent me. 


144 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


Look at me good and see if you can’t recognize me. 
Say one word to me. ’ ’ 

But the sick man, after having looked fixedly at 
him, shut his eyes. 

“Daddy! daddy! What is the matter with you?’’ I 
am your little son — your own Cicillo. ’ ’ 

The sick man made no movement, and continued to 
breathe painfully. 

Then the lad, still crying, took a chair, seated him- 
self and waited, never taking his eyes from his father’s 
face. “A doctor will surely come to pay him a visit,’’ 
he thought; “he will tell me something.’’ And he 
became wrapped in sad thoughts, recalling many 
things about his kind father, the parting day when he 
said the last farewell to him aboard the ship, the hopes 
which his family had founded on his journey, his 
mother dressed in black, the family in misery. And so 
he remained for a long time. He started up, feeling 
a gentle touch on his shoulder. It was a nun. 

“What is the matter with my father?.’’ he asked her, 
quickly. 

“Is he your father?’’ said the sister, kindly. 

“Yes, he is my father; I have come. What ails 
him?” 

“Courage, my boy,’’ replied the sister; “the doctor 
will soon be here now. ’ ’ And she went away without 
saying anything more. 

He heard the sound of a bell half and hour later, and 
he saw the doctor enter at the other end of the hall, 
together with an assistant ; the sister and a nurse fol- 
lowed him. They commenced the visit, stopping at 
every bed. This time of waiting to the lad seemed 
never to come to an end, and at every step the doctor 
gave his anxiety grew more and more. They at 


FEBRUARY 


145 


length arrived at the next bed. The doctor was a 
tall old man, with stooping shoulders and a grave 
face. Before he left the next bed the boy rose to 
his feet and began to cry when he came near. The 
doctor looked at him. “He is the sick man’s son," 
said the sister, “and arrived this morning from the 
country. ’ ’ 

The doctor placed one hand on his shoulder; then 
leaning over the sick man, felt his pulse, touched his 
forehead, and asked a few questions of the sister, who 
replied, “There is nothing new.” 

He remained thoughtful for a while, then said, 
“Keep on with the same treatment.” 

Gaining some courage, the boy inquired tearfully: 
“What is the matter with my father?” 

“Take courage, my boy,” replied the doctor, laying 
his hand on his shoulder once more; “he has facial 
erysipelas. Although it is a grave case, still we are 
hopeful. Help him. Your presence may do him 
some good.” 

“But he does not recognize me!” the boy exclaimed, 
sorrowfully. 

“He will recognize you to-morrow probably. We 
hope for the best, so take courage.” 

The boy would have liked to ask a few more ques- 
tions, but did not dare. The doctor passed on. And 
then he started his life of nurse. Unable to do any- 
thing else, he arranged the bed clothes of the sick 
man, touched his hand every now and then, chased 
away the flies, bent over him at every groan, and when 
the sister brought him something to drink, he took the 
glass and spoon from her hand and gave it in her stead. 
The sick man looked at him once in a while, but gave 
no sign of recognition ; yet his glance rested longer on 


146 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


the lad each time, especially when the latter put his 
handkerchief to his eyes. 

The first day went by thus. At night the boy slept 
on two chairs in a corner of the ward, and in the 
morning he recommenced his work of mercy. That 
day it seemed as if the eyes of the sick man showed 
signs of consciousness. At the sound of the boy’s 
caressing voice a vague expression of gratitude seemed 
to shine for an instant in his eyes and once he moved 
his lips a little, as though he wanted to speak. After 
each short nap he seemed, on opening his eyes, to look 
around for his little nurse. The doctor, who had gone 
by, thought he saw a little improvement. Towards 
dusk, .on putting the cup to his lips, the boy thought 
he saw a very faint smile come over the swollen lips. 
Then he began to gain courage and to hope ; and with 
the hope of being understood, at least indistinctly, he 
talked to him — talked to him for a long time — of his 
. mother, of his little sisters, of his return home, and he 
encouraged him with warm and loving words. 

And although often doubtful whether he was heard, 
he continued talking, for it appeared to him that even 
though he did not understand him, the sick man lis- 
tened with a certain pleasure to his voice, — to that 
unusual intonation of affection and sorrow. And 
thus passed the second day, and the third, and the 
fourth, with slight improvements and unlooked-for 
changes for the worse; and the boy was so busy with 
all his cares, that he barely ate a bit of bread and 
cheese twice a day, when the sister brought it to him, — 
the dying patients, the sudden running up of the sis- 
ters at night, the moans and despairing gestures of 
visitors, — all those painful and lugubrious scenes of 
hospital life which on any other occasion would have 


FEBRUARY 


147 


disconcerted and alarmed him. Hours, days, passed, 
and he was still there with his daddy ; watchful, anx- 
ious, trembling at every sigh and at every look, con- 
stantly agitated between a hope which relieved his 
mind and a discomfort which froze his heart. 

On the fifth day the sick man suddenly grew worse. 
On being questioned the doctor shook his head, as 
much as to say that all was over, and the boy, throw- 
ing himself on a chair, burst out crying. Yet one 
thing consoled him. Despite the fact that he was 
worse, the sick man seemed to be slowly regaining a 
little intelligence. He stared at the lad more intently, 
and, with an expression which grew in sweetness, 
would take his drink and medicine from no one but 
him, and made strenuous efforts with his lips with 
greater frequency, as though he were trying to pro- 
nounce some word; and he did it so plainly sometimes 
that his son grasped his arm violently, inspired by a 
sudden hope, and said to him in a tone which was 
almost that of joy, “Patience, patience; you are get- 
ting well ; we will go away from here, we will soon go 
home to mamma. Courage, for a little while longer!” 

That afternoon at four o’clock, just when the boy 
had abandoned himself to one of these outbursts of 
tenderness and hope, footsteps were heard in the 
ward, and then a strong voice uttering two words 
only, — “Farewell, sister!” — which made him jump to 
his feet with a cry repressed in his throat. 

A man with a thick bandage on his hand entered the 
ward. The boy uttered a shriek, and stood rooted to 
the spot. 

The man turned round, gazed at him for a moment, 
and gave a cry in his turn,— “Cicillo!”— and ran 
towards him. 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 



The boy fell into his father’s arms, choking with 
emotion. The sister, the nurse, and the assistant ran 
up, and stood there in astonishment. The boy could 
not recover his voice. 

“Oh, my Cicillo!’’ exclaimed the father, after look- 
ing attentively at 
the sick man, as 
he kissed the boy 
several times. 
“Cicillo, .my son, 
how is this? They 
took you to the 
bedside of another 
man. And there 
was I, in despair 
at not seeing you 
after mamma had 
written, T have 
sent him.’ Poor 
Cicillo ! How long 
have you been 
here? How did 
they happen to 
make a mistake? 
1 have come out 
of it easily! I have a strong constitution, you know! 
And how is mamma, Concettella and the little baby — 
how are they all? 

“I am going away from the hospital now. Come, 
then. Oh, Lord God! Who would have thought 
it!’’ 

The boy tried to relate a few words to tell the news 
of the family. “Oh, how happy I am!’’ he stam- 
mered. “How happy I am! What awful days I have 


FEBRUARY 


149 

gone through!” And he still continued to kiss his 
father. But he did not stir. 

“Come,” said his father; “we can get home this 
evening.” And he drew the lad towards him. The 
boy turned to look at his patient. 

“Well, are you coming or not?” his father demanded, 
in wonder. 

The boy looked again at the sick man, who opened 
his e5^es at that moment and gazed languidly at him. 

Then a flood of words poured from his very soul. 

“No, daddy; wait here — I can’t go yet and leave 
this old man, for I have been watching at his bedside 
five days, and he gazes at me constantly. I took him 
for you, and I have learned to love him dearly. He 
looks at me and I have given him his drink ; he wants 
me always near him; he is now at a very critical 
point. Have patience; I have not the courage — I 
don't know — it pains me too much; I will come home 
to-morrow if yoii will only let me stay a little longer ; 
for I dislike to leave him, he looks at me so. See how 
he looks at me! I don’t know who he is, but he asks 
me to stay because if I don’t he will die alone; so 
please let me stay here, dear daddy!” 

“Bravo, little fellow!” exclaimed the nurse. 

The father stood in amazement, staring at the boy; 
then he looked at the sick man, “Who is he?” he 
asked. 

“A country man, like yourself,” replied the attend- 
ant, “just arrived from abroad, and who entered the 
hospital on the very day that you entered it. He was 
out of his mind when they brought him here, and 
could not speak. Possibly he has a family and sons* 
far away. He probably thinks that your son is one of 
his.” 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


150 

The sick man was still staring at the boy. The 
father said to Cicillo : 

“Stay!” 

“He will not have to stay much longer,” murmured 
the nurse. 

“Stay!” answered his father; “you have heart. I 
will go home right away to relieve mamma’s distress. 
Here is a five-franc piece for your expenses. Good- 
bye, my brave little son, until we meet!” 

He hugged him, looked at him keenly, kissed him 
on the brow, and went away. 

The boy returned to the bed and the sick man 
appeared comforted. And Cicillo began again to play 
the nurse, no longer weeping, but with the same glad- 
ness, the same patience, as before ; he again began to 
give the man his drink, to arrange his bed clothes, to 
caress his hand, to speak kind words to him, to give 
him encouragement. He attended him all that day, 
all that night ; he stood beside him all the following 
day. But the sick man grew still worse; his face 
became a purple color, his respiration grew heavier, 
his excitement increased, inarticulate cries escaped his 
lips, the inflammation became excessive. On his 
evening visit the doctor said that the man would sur- 
vive that night. And then Cicillo redoubled his 
cares, and never lost sight of him, and the sick man 
kept moving his lips from time to time, with great 
effort, as though he wanted to say something, and an 
expression of extraordinary sweetness passed over his 
eyes now and then, as they grew smaller and dimmer. 
And that night the boy staid with him until the first 
rays of dawn gleaned white through the windows, and 
the sister appeared. The sister drew near the bed, 
glanced at the patient, and then hastily withdrew. 


FEBRUARY 


151 

She reappeared shortly with the assistant doctor and a 
nurse, who carried a lantern. 

“He is breathing his last,” said the doctor. 

The boy grasped the sick man. The latter opened 
his eyes, stared at him, and closed them once more. 

Just then the lad thought that he felt his hand 
pressed. “He pressed my hand!” he exclaimed. 

The doctor leaned over the patient for an instant, 
then drew himself up. 

The sister took down a crucifix from the wall. 

“He is dead!” cried the boy. 

“Go, my son,” said the doctor; “your work of 
mercy is over. Go, and may fortune await you, for 
you deserve it. God will protect you. Farewell.” 

The sister, who had stepped aside for a moment, 
came back with a little bunch of violets which she had 
taken from a glass on the window-sill, and gave them 
to the boy, saying : 

“I have nothing else to give you. Take these for a 
little memento of the hospital.” 

“Thanks,” returned the boy, taking the bunch of 
flowers with one hand, and wiping the tears from his 
eyes with the other; but I have such a long distance 
to go. I have to walk, and I think the flowers will 
spoil.” And separating the violets, he scattered them 
over the bed, saying: “I leave them as a memento for 
my poor dead man. Thanks, sister! thanks, doctor!” 
Then, turning to the dead man, “Farewell!” And 
while he sought a name to give him, the sweet name 
which he had applied to him for five days recurred to 
his lips — “Farewell, poor daddy!” 

So saying, he took his little bunch of clothes under 
his arm, and, exhausted with fatigue, he walked slowly 
away. The day was dawning. 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


15^ 


THE WORKSHOP 

Saturday, the i8th. 

Last night Precossi came to put me in mind that I 
was to go and see his workshop, which is down the 
street, and this morning, when I went out with my 
father, I had him take me there for a short while. As 
we drew near the shop, Garoffi ran out with a package 
in his hand, the wind blew up his coat and showed his 
merchandise. Ah! now I knaw where he goes to 
scrape the iron-dust, which he sells for old papers, that 
swapper of a Garoffi ! 

Arriving before the door, we saw Precossi seated on 
a little pile of bricks, studying diligently his lesson, 
with his book resting on his knees. He suddenly 
arose and invited us to enter. It was a very large room 
full of coal-dust, shining with hammers, pincers, bars, 
and old iron of every description ; and in one corner 
burned a fire in a small furnace, where a boy blew a 
pair of bellows. Precossi ’s father was standing near 
the anvil, and a young boy was holding a bar of iron 
in the fire. 

“Ah! here he is,” said the blacksmith, as soon as he 
caught sight of us, and he raised his cap; “the nice 
boy who gives away railway trains ! You have come 
to see me work a little, have you not? I shall be with 
you in a minute.” 

He smiled as he said this, and he did not have the 
fierce-looking face nor the evil eyes of days gone by. 
The young man handed him a long bar of iron heated 
red-hot on one end, and the blacksmith placed it on 
the anvil. He was shaping curved bars for terrace 
railings. He raised a large hammer and began to 
beat it, pushing the heated part how here, now there. 


FEBRUARY 


153 


between one point of the anvil and the middle, turn- 
ing it about in different ways. It was a fine sight to 
see how the iron curved beneath the rapid and quick 
blows of the hammer, and twisted, and gradually 
assumed the graceful form of a leaf torn from a 
flower, like a pipe of dough which he had shaped with 
his hands. And all during this time his son watched 
us with a certain air of pride, as much as to say, “See 
how my father works!” 

“Do you see how it is done, young man?” the black- 
smith asked me. When he got through working he 
held out the bar, which looked like a bishop’s crosier. 
Then he laid it aside and threw another into the 
fire. 

“You have done very well, indeed,” my father said 
to him. And he added, “So you are working, eh? 
You have returned to good habits?” 

“Yes, I have come back,” answered the workman, 
wiping away the perspiration, and flushing a little. 
“And do you know who has made me return to them?” 

My father feigned not to understand. 

“This brave boy,” said the blacksmith, indicating 
his son with his finger; “that brave boy there, who 
studied and did honor to his father, while his father 
rioted and treated him like a dog. When I saw that 
medal — Ah! my little lad no bigger than a cent’s 
worth of cheese, come here, that I *may take a good 
look at your face ! ’ ’ 

The boy ran quickly to him, the smith took him and 
lifted him upon the anvil, holding him under the 
arms, and said to him : 

“Clean the frontispiece of this big beast of a father!” 

And then Precossi covered his father’s black face 
with kisses until his own became all black. 


154 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


“That’s it!’’ said the smith, putting him back on the 
floor. 

“That is it, indeed, Precossi!’’ my father said, joy- 
fully. And saying good-bye to the smith and his son, 
we parted. As I was leaving, little Precossi said to 
me, “Excuse me,’’ and thrust a little packet of nails 
into my pocket. I invited him to come and view the 
carnival from my house. 

On the way, my father said, “You have given him 
your railway trains; yet it had been made of a small 
gift for that blessed child, who has reformed his 
father’s heart. 

THE LITTLE CLOWN 

Monday, the 20th. 

The entire city is in a tumult over the Carnival, 
which is nearly over. Booths of mountebanks and 
jesters stand in every square, and under our windows 
there is a circus-tent, in which a show is given by a 
little Venetian company with five horses. The circus 
is situated in the center of the square; and in one 
corner there are three large vans in which the mounte- 
banks sleep and dress themselves — three small houses 
on wheels, with their tiny windows over which the 
baby’s swaddling-bands are stretched. There is a 
woman who is nursing a child, cooks the meals, and 
dances on the tight-rope. Poor people ! 

The word mountebank is spoken as though it were 
an insult ; they earn their bread honestly, yet amus- 
ing all — and how they work ! All day long they run 
back and forth from the circus-tent to the vans in 
tights, in this cold weather; they snatch a mouthful or 
two in a hurry, standing, between two performances ; 



FOR ONE WINTER HE WENT TO GIVE LESSONS TO THE PRISONERS IN 

THE JUDICIAL PRISON 



FEBRUARY 


155 


and oftentimes, when their tent becomes crowded, a 
wind arises, tears away the ropes and puts out the 
lights, and then good-bye to the show. They must 
return the money and work the whole night at repair- 
ing their booth. There are two lads who work ; and 
my father recognized the 
smallest one while he was 
crossing the square, and he 
is the son of the owner, the 
same one whom we saw per- 
form tricks on horseback last 
year in a circus on the Vic- 
tor Emanuel Square. He 
has grown, being now about 
eight years old. He is a 
fine-looking lad, with a 
round and brown, roguish 
face, with so many black 
curls that they escape from 
his pointed cap. His dress 
is like that of a clown, a 
sort of sack, with white 
sleeves embroidered with 
black, and cloth slippers. 

He is a little imp. Every 
one likes him. He can do 
everything. We get a 
glimpse of him early in the 
morning, wrapped in a shawl, carrying milk to his 
wooden house ; then he goes to get the horses at the 
boarding-stable on Via Bertola. He holds the baby in 
his arms, transports hoops, trestles, rails, ropes, cleans 
the vans, lights the fire, and in his leisure moments 
always hangs about his mother. My father always 




A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


156 

watches him from the window, and talks incessantly 
about him and his family, who are nice people, and of 
their fondness for their children. 

One evening we went to the circus, and as it was 
cold, hardly anyone was there; still the little clown 
worked hard to entertain those few people, performing 
dangerous leaps, hanging on to the horses’ tails, walk- 
ing, with his legs in the air, all alone, and singing 
always with a smile on his handsome little brown face. 
And his father, who wore a red vest and white trous- 
ers, high boots, and carried a whip in his hand, 
watched him ; but it saddened him. My father took 
pity on him, and spoke of him on the following day to 
Delis the painter, who came to see us. These poor 
people were killing themselves with hard work, and 
their business was going so badly ! He likes the boy 
so much ! What could be done for them? The painter 
had an idea. You can write so well, he said. Write 
a nice article and have the Gazette publish it. Tell 
about the wonderful things the little clown does, and I 
will take his picture for you. Everybody reads the 
Gazette and people will instantly go to see them.” 

And so it happened. My father wrote a fine article, 
full of jests, which told all that we saw from the win- 
dow, and inspired a desire to know and caress the little 
artist, and the painter sketched a little portrait which 
was a pretty good likeness, and which was published 
on Saturday evening. And behold! At the Sunday 
performance a great crowd rushed to the circus, The 
announcement was made: Performance for the benefit 
of the little clozvn^ as he was called in the Gazette. My 
father led me to the best seats. The circus was 
jammed. Many spectators held the Gazette in their 
hands, and showed it to the little clown who laughed 


FEBRUARY 


157 


and ran from one to another overjoyed. The owner 
was also happy. Just think! No newspaper had ever 
done him such an honor, and the money box was 
filled. My father sat beside me. In the audience we 
found many acquaintances. At the entrance for the 
horses stood the teacher of gymnastics — he who has 
been with Garibaldi ; and opposite us, in the second 
row sat the little mason, with his little round face, 
beside his gigantic father; and as soon as he caught 
sight of me he made a hare’s face at me. A little 
further on I espied Garoffi, who was counting the spec- 
tators, and calculated on his fingers how much money 
the company had made. Seated on a chair in the first 
row, near us, was poor Robetti, the boy who saved the 
child from the omnibus, holding his crutches between 
his knees, leaning close to the side of his father, the 
artillery captain, who kept one hand on his shoulder. 
The performance began. The little clown performed 
wonders on his horse, on the trapeze, on the tight 
rope ; and every time that he jumped down, all clapped 
their hands, and some pulled his curls. 

Then various others, rope dancers, jugglers, and 
riders, clad in tights, and sparkling with silver, went 
through their exercises; but when the boy was not 
performing, the audience seemed to grow weary. At 
a certain moment I saw the teacher of gymnastics, 
who still stood at the entrance for the horses, whisper 
in the owner’s ear, and the latter immediately looked 
around, as if in search of some one. His eyes rested 
on us. My father, noticing it, understood that the 
teacher had revealed that he was the author of the 
article, and so as to escape being thanked, he quickly 
retreated, saying to me : 

“Stay here, Enrico; I will wait for you outside.” 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


158 

The little clown, after having exchanged a few 
words with his father, performed still another trick; 
erect upon a galloping horse, he made up in four 
characters— as a pilgrim, a sailor, a soldier, and an 
acrobat. Every time that he went by me, he looked 
at me, and he no sooner dismounted than he began to 
make the tour of the circus, with his clown’s cap in his 
hand, and everybody flung pennies or sugar plums 
into it. I had two pennies ready, but upon arriving 
in front of me, instead of offering his cap, he drew it 
back, glanced at me, and moved on. I was mortified. 
Why had he treated me thus. 

When the performance ended the owner thanked the 
audience ; and all the people arose, thronging the exit. 
Feeling confused by the crowd, I was about to go out, 
when a hand touched my shoulder. I turned and saw 
the little clown with his little brown face, his black 
curls, and smiling at me ; his hands were filled with 
sugar plums. Then I understood. 

“Will you accept these confetti from the little 
clown?’’ he asked. 

I nodded yes and took three or four. 

“Then,” he added, “please accept a kiss also.” 

“Give me two,’’ I answered; and held up my face 
to him. He rubbed off his floury face with his sleeve, 
put his arm around my neck, and gave me two kisses 
on my cheek, saying: 

“There! take one of them to your father.’’ 

THE LAST DAY OF THE CARNIVAL 

Tuesday, the 21st. 

How sad a scene we beheld today at the procession 
of the masks ! It ended all right but it might have 
resulted in a great mishap. In the San Carlos Square 



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FEBRUARY 


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all the decorations were red, white and yellow. A 
great crowd of people had gathered, masks of every 
color imaginable were passing, cars embellished and 
adorned with gold, little boats in the forms of pavilions 
and little theaters and warriors, cooks, sailors and 
shepherdesses; there was such a disorder that one 
kijew not where to look. A fearful noise of trumpets, 
horns and sounds deafened, and the masks on the 
chariots drank and sang, as they called to the people 
in the streets and at the windows, who replied at the 
t6p of their voices and pitched oranges and sugar- 
plums at each other with all their might, and above 
the chariots and the throng, as far as one could see, 
were banners fluttering, helmets gleaming, plumes 
waving, gigantic pasteboard heads moving, huge 
head-dresses, enormous trumpets, fantastic arms, little 
drums, castanets, red caps, and bottles — all the world 
seemed to have gone mad. 

When our carriage entered the square, a magnificent 
chariot was in front of us, drawn by four horses cov- 
ered with gold embroidered trappings and all wreathed 
in artificial roses, and in the chariot there were four- 
teen or fifteen gentlemen masquerading as gentlemen 
at the court of France. They were dressed in spar- 
kling silks, with huge white wigs and plumed hats 
under the arm, a small sword, and a bow of ribbons 
and laces on the breast. They looked magnificent. 
They were all singing a French song and throwing 
candies to the people, and they in return clapped their 
hands and shouted. All of a sudden, to the left, we 
saw a man lift a child of about six years of age, who 
was crying piteously and throwing her little arms 
about as if she was going into convulsions, high above 
the heads of the crowd. 


i6o ^ 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


The man made his way to the chariot where the 
fourteen or fifteen men stood. One of the mas- 
queraders bent down to take the ehild, while another 
said, very loudly: “Here is a little child who has lo^ 
her mother in the crowd. Hold her in your arms; 
the mother may be around here somewhere, and she 
will catch sight of her. I don’t see any other 
way. ’ ’ 

The masquerader took the child in his arms while 
the rest stopped singing. The child screamed and 
struggled, the gentleman took off his mask and tlie 
chariot continued to move slowly onwards. Mean- 
while, as we were afterwards told, at one of the far 
ends of the square, a poor woman, half crazed with 
grief, was forcing her way through the crowd, shov- 
ing, pushing through the crowd, and all the time 
shrieking : 

“Maria! Maria! Maria! I have lost my little 
daughter ! She has been stolen from me ! They have 
suffocated my child!’’ And fora quarter of an hour 
she was furious and despaired in this manner, getting 
pushed in every direction, for the crowd was enor- 
mous, and still she tried to force her way. During 
this time the masqueraders on the car held the child 
pressed against the ribbons and laces on his breast, 
looking over the square, and trying to quiet the poor 
child, who covered her face with her hands. She did 
not know where she was and sobbed as if her little 
heart would break. The masquerader was deeply 
moved and one could plainly see the screams of the 
child reached his soul. All the others in the car 
offered the child oranges and sugar-plums; but she 
refused them all, and grew constantly more convulsed 
and frightened. 


FEBRUARY 


i6i 

“Find her mother!” shouted the masquerader to the 
crowd ; ‘ ‘ seek her mother 1 ” 

And every one turned to the right and the left ; but 
the mother was not in sight. Finally, a few steps 
from the place where the Via Roma runs into the 
square a woman was seen to rush towards the chariot. 
Ah, I shall never forget that sight! She no longer 
acted like a human being, for her hair was streaming, 
her face distorted, her dress torn and she rushed for- 
ward with a rattle in her throat — one could not tell 
whether her actions meant joy, anguish, or even rage 
— and flung out her hands like claws to snatch her 
child. The chariot stopped. 

“Here she is,” said the masquerader, reaching out 
the child after kissing it; and he placed her in her 
mother’s arms, who pressed her to her breast with a 
terrible eagerness. But one of the tiny hands rested 
a second longer in the gentleman’s; and the latter, 
pulling off his right hand a gold ring, set with a large 
diamond, and putting it quickly upon the finger of the 
little girl, said : 

“Take this; it shall be your marriage dowry.” 

The mother stood rooted to the spot, as though 
enchanted; the crowd cheered, the masquerader put 
on his mask again, his companions continued to sing, 
and the chariot started on again slowly, while the 
crowd clapped their hands and cheered. 

THE BLIND BOYS 

Thursday, the 24th. 

As our teacher is very ill they have sent in his stead 
the one who teaches in the fourth grade, and who has 
been a teacher in the Institute for the Blind. He is 


i 62 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


older than any of the other instructors, with such 
white hair that it looks like a wig made of cotton, and 
he speaks peculiarly as though he were chanting a 
melancholy song; but he performs it well and he 
knows so much. As soon as he entered the school- 
room, noticing a boy wearing a bandage over his eye, 
he drew near his desk and asked him what was the 
matter. 

“Be careful of your eyes, my boy,’’ he said to him. 
And then Derossi asked him : 

“Is it true, sir teacher, that you have been teaching 
the blind?’’ 

“Yes, for a number of years,’’ he replied. 

And Derossi said, in a low tone, “Tell us some- 
thing about it. ’ ’ 

The teacher went and seated himself at his table. 

Coretti said loudly. The Institute for the blind is in 
the Via Nizza. 

“You say blind — blind,’’ said the teacher, “as if you 
were saying the words poor or ill, or I know not 
what. But do you understand the meaning of that 
word? Reflect a moment. Blind! Never to see any- 
thing, no never. Not being able to distinguish the 
day from night; to see the sun, nor your parents, 
nothing of all your surroundings and that which you 
touch; to be plunged in a perpetual darkness as if 
one were buried in the bowels of the earth! Try a 
while to be so forever ; you will soon be overcome by 
a terror; it will seem impossible to resist that you 
commence to scream, that you must go crazy or die. 
Yet, poor boys! upon entering the Institute of the 
Blind during the recreation hour, to listen to their 
playing on violins and flutes in all direction, and to 
hear them talking loudly and laughing, ascending and 


FEBRUARY 


63 


descending the stairs rapidly, and to see them wander- 
ing freely through the corridors and dormitories, you 
could never believe them as unfortunate as they really 
are. One should observe them well. There are 
young men of sixteen or eighteen, strong and happy, 
who bear their blindness with a certain ease, almost 
with boldness ; but you can tell from the proud resent- 
ful expression of countenance that they must have 
suffered dreadfully before becoming resigned to their 
misfortune. 

“There are others, with sweet and pallid faces, on 
which a deep resignation is visible; but they are sad, 
and one understands that they must still weep at times 
secretly. Ah, my sons ! think that some of them have 
lost their sight in a few days, some after years of bold- 
ness, having undergone many terrible surgical opera- 
tions, and that many were born so — born into a night 
that never has dawned for them — that they came into 
the world as into a great tomb, and that they do not 
even know what the human visage is like. Just imag- 
ine how they must have suffered, and how they must 
still suffer, when they think thiis confusedly of the 
great difference between themselves and those who 
see, and ask themselves. Why this difference; is it 
our fault? 

“I have spent many years among them, yet, when 
I recall that class, all those eyes forever sealed, all 
those pupils without sight and without life, and then 
look at the rest of you, it seems impossible to me that 
you should not all be happy. Think of it ! There are 
about twenty-six thousand blind persons who do not 
see the light — do you understand? An army which 
would take four hours in marching by our windows.” 

The teacher paused. Not a breath could be heard 


164 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


in the whole room. Derossi asked if it were true that 
the blind have a more delicate sense of feeling than 
the rest of us. 

The teacher replied: “It is true. All the other 
senses are finer in them, because, since they must 
replace, among them, that of sight, they are more and 
better exercised than they are in the case of those who 
see. In the morning, in the dormitories, one asks 
another, ‘Is the sun shining?’ and the one who dresses 
first runs to communicate the good news, ‘The sun is 
shining!’ From the voice of the person they can tell 
how tall one is. We judge of a man’s soul by his 
eyes ; they, by his voice. They remember intonations 
and accents for years. They know if there is more 
than one person in a room, even if only one speaks, 
and the rest remain motionless. By their touch they 
will tell you whether a spoon is more or less polished. 
Little girls distinguish dyed wool from that of the 
natural color. Passing two by two along the streets, 
they recognize nearly every shop by their odors, even 
those in which we smell nothing at all. They spin 
tops and by listening to its buzzing they go straight to 
it and pick it up without any mistake. They play with 
hoops, with nine-pins, jump the rope, build little 
houses of stones, pluck violets as though they saw 
them, make matting and baskets, weaving together 
straw of various colors rapidly and well — to such an 
extent is their sense of touch skilled. The sense of 
touch is their sight and one of their greatest pleasures 
is to handle, to grasp, to guess the forms of things by 
touching them. It is pitiful to see them when they are 
conducted to the Industrial Museum, where they let 
them handle everything they please, to observe how 
eagerly they fling themselves on geometrical objects, 


FEBRUARY 


165 

on little models of houses, on instruments; how joy- 
fully they feel over, and rub and turn everything 
about in their hands, in order to see how it is made. 
They call this seeing!” 

Garoffi here interrupted the teacher to ask if it is 
true that blind boys learn to count better than others. 

The teacher re- 
plied: ‘‘It is true. 

They learn to 
count and to 
write. They have 
books made pur- 
posely for them, 
with raised char- 
acters upon 
which they pass 
their fingers, rec- 
ognize the letters 
and pronounce 
the words. They 
read rapidly; and 
you should see 
them blush, poor 
things, when 
they make a mis- 
take. And they 
write, too, without ink. They write on thick, hard 
paper with a metal bodkin which makes so many 
little hollows, grouped according to a special alphabet. 
These little hollows stand out in relief on the other 
side of the paper, so that by turning over the paper 
and drawing their fingers across these projections, 
they are able to read what they have written and also 
the writing of others. And in this manner they write 



A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


1 66 

compositions and also letters to one another. In the 
same way they write numbers and make calculations, 
and they calculate mentally with an incredible facility, 
because their minds are not distracted by the sight of 
surrounding objects, as ours are. And if you could 
but see how very fond they are of listening to some 
one reading, how attentive they are, how well they 
remember everything, how they discuss among them- 
selves, even little ones, of things connected with his- 
tory and grammar as they sit four or five on the same 
bench without turning to each other, and speak the 
first with the third, the second with the fourth, in a 
loud voice, and all together, without losing a single 
word, so acute and prompt is their hearing. 

And they think more of the examination than you 
do, I assure you, and they are fonder of their teachers. 
They recognize their teacher by his step and his odor; 
they can tell whether he is in a good or bad humor, 
whether he is well or ill, simply by his uttering a sin- 
gle word. They want the teacher to touch them when 
he encourages and praises them, and they touch his 
hand and his arms so as to express their gratitude. 
And they love one another and are good friends to 
each other. During recreation time the same ones 
are always together. In the girl’s school, for instance, 
they get into groups according to the instrument they 
play, violinists, pianists and flute players, and they 
never separate. When they have grown fond of any- 
one they rarely break off the friendship in which they 
take much comfort. They judge correctly among 
themselves and have a clear and profound idea of 
good and evil. No one becomes as enthusiastic as 
they when told of a generous action or of a noble 
deed. ’ ’ 


FEBRUARY 


167 


Votini asked if they played well. 

“They are ardently fond of music,” replied the 
teacher. “Music is their joy, their delight. Little 
blind children, when they first enter the Institute, 
will stand three hours perfectly motionless, to listen to 
playing. They learn easily and play with much force. 
Should the teacher tell one of them that he has not a 
talent for music he feels very sorrowful, but sets to 
studying desperately. Ah! if you could hear their 
music, if you could see them when they are playing, 
with their heads thrown back, a smile on their lips, 
their faces flushed, trembling with emotion, overjoyed 
at listening to that harmony which replies to them in 
the darkness in which they are plunged, you would 
feel what a divine consolation is music! And how 
delighted they are, they beam with happiness when a 
teacher says to them, “You will become an artist.” 
The one who is first in music, who is the best on the 
violin or piano, is like a king to them ; they love, they 
venerate him. If a quarrel comes up, between two of 
them, they go to him. Should two friends fall out, it 
is he who reconciles them. The smallest pupils, whom 
he teaches to play, look up to him as a father. Before 
retiring to bed they go to bid him good-bye. And 
they talk continually of music. 

“They are already in bed, late at night, tired of 
study and work, half asleep, and still they are talking, 
in a low tone about operas, master instruments and 
orchestras. And it is so great a punishment for them 
to be deprived of the reading or lesson in music and it 
causes them such sorrow that one -hardly ever has the 
courage to punish them in that way. That which the 
light is to our eyes music is to their hearts.” 

Derossi asked whether we could not go to see them. 


i68 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


“You can’’ replied the teacher; “but not now. You 
shall go there later on, when you are able to appre- 
ciate the whole extent of this misfortune and to feel 
all the compassion which it merits. It is a sad sight, 
my boys. You 'will sometimes see these boys sitting 
before an open window, enjoying the fresh air, with 
immovable faces which seem to be gazing at the wide 
green country and the beautiful blue mountains which 
you can see; and when you consider that they see 
nothing — that they can never see anything — of that 
great loveliness, your soul is oppressed, as though you 
had yourselves become blind at that moment. Then 
there are those who were born blind and who as they 
have never seen the world do not complain because 
they do not possess the image of anything, therefore 
arousing less compassion; but there are lads who 
have been blind only a few months, who still remem- 
ber everything, who thoroughly understand all that they 
have lost; and these have, in addition, the grief of 
feeling in their minds day by day, of feeling the per- 
sons whom they have loved the most die out of their 
memories. One of these boys said to me one day with 
much sadness, ‘I should like to have my sight again, 
only for a moment, to see once more mamma’s face, 
for I no longer remember it!’ And when their 
mothers come to see them, the boys place their hands 
on her face, feeling her over thoroughly from brow to 
chin, and her ears, to see how they are made, and 
they can hardly resign themselves to the fact that they 
cannot see her, and they call her by name many times, 
to implore her that she will allow them, that she will 
let them, see her just once. How many, even hard- 
hearted men, go away in tears! And when you do 
leave your case seems to you to be the exception and 



THE NURSE DREW ASIDE THE CURTAINS, AND SAID: “HERE IS YOUR 

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FEBRUARY 


169 


the power to see people, houses and the sky a rarely 
merited privilege. Oh! I do not believe there is one 
of you who, on leaving there, would feel displeased to 
deprive himself of a portion of his own sight, in order 
to bestow a gleam at least upon all those poor children 
for whom the sun has no light, for whom a mother has 
no face!” 

THE SICK MASTER 

Saturday, the 25 th. 

After school yesterday I went to see my school 
teacher who was sick. He made himself sick from 
overwork. Five hours of teaching a day, then an hour 
of gymnastics, then two hours more of evening school, 
which means little sleep, getting his food whenever he 
could and working breathlessly from morning till 
night. Mother tells me that is how he has lost his 
health. My mother was waiting for me at the big 
door; I came out alone, and on the stairs I met the 
teacher with the black beard — Coatti, — the one who 
scares every one and punishes no one. He stared at 
me with terrible big eyes and made his voice like that 
of lion to fool me, but without laughing. I was 
even laughing when I rang the bell on the fourth 
floor; but I stopped very suddenly when the servant 
let me into a wretched, half-lighted room, where my 
teacher lay on a little iron bed. His beard was long. 
He shaded his eyes with his hands in order to see bet- 
ter, and exclaimed in his affectionate voice : 

“Oh, Enrico!” 

I drew near the bed; he laid one hand on my 
shoulder and said: Good, my boy. You have been 
very good to come and see your poor teacher. I am 
fallen to a sad condition as you see, my dear Enrico. 
And how fares the school? How are your school 


170 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


chums getting along? Are they well? Even without 
me? You are getting on nicely without your old mas- 
ter are you not? * 

I was just going to say “no, when he interrupted me. 

“Come, come, I know that you don’t dislike me! 
and he heaved a sigh. 

I glanced at some photographs which were hanging 
on the wall. 

He said to me. “Look at all those pictures of boys 
which were given me over twenty years ago. They 
were good boys and I keep their pictures for souve- 
nirs. When I die my last look will be at them; at 
those roguish urchins among whom my life has been 
passed; You will give me your picture too, won’t 
you, Enrico, when you have finished the elementary 
course?’’ 

Then he took an orange from his nightstand and 
handed it to me. 

“I have nothing else to give you,’’ he said; “it is 
the gift of a sick man.’’ I looked at it, and my heart 
was sad, I know not why. 

“Listen to what I say,’’ he began again. I expect 
to get over this ; but if I should not get well see that 
you work harder in arithmetic, for that is your weak 
point; make an effort. It is merely a question of a 
first effort, because sometimes there is no lack of skill ; 
there is merely an absence of willingness — of stability, 
as it is called.’’ 

All during this time he was breathing heavily and 
one could see he was suffering awfully. 

“I am feverish, he sighed. I am half dead; I again 
implore you, apply yourself to arithmetic, to problems. 
If you don’t succeed at first, rest a little and begin 
anew. And go forward, but quietly, without fagging 
yourself, without overworking your mind. 


FEBRUARY 


171 

Go ! My kind regard to your mamma. And do not 
climb these stairs again. We shall see each other 
again in school. And if we do not, you must once and 
a while call to mind your teacher of the third grade, 
who wds fond of you. ’ ’ 

I felt inclined to cry at these words. 

“Bend down your head,” he said to me. 

I stooped my head to his pillow ; he kissed my hair. 
Then he said to me, “Go!” and turned his face towards 
the wall. And I flew down the stairs ; for I longed to 
hug my mother. 

THE STREET 

Saturday, the 25 th. 

“I was watching you from the window this after- 
noon, when you were on your way home from the 
teacher’s house; you collided with a woman. Pay 
more attention to your manner of walking in the 
street. There are duties to be fulfilled even there. 
If you are polite and well behaved in a private 
house, why can’t you do likewise in the street, which 
is everybody’s house. Remember this, Enrico. No 
matter when you meet a feeble old man, a poor per- 
son, a woman with a child in her arms, a cripple with 
his crutches, a man carrying a heavy pack, a family 
dressed in mourning, make way for them respectfully. 
We must look with reverence on age, misery, maternal 
love, infirmity, labor, death. Whenever you see a 
person who is about to be run over by a vehicle, drag 
him away, if it is a child; warn him, if he is a man; 
always ask what ails the child who is crying all alone ; 
pick up the old man’s cane when he lets it fall. If 
two boys are fighting separate them ; if it is two men 
go away, for it is awful to witness such brutality, 
which offends and hardens the heart. And when a 


172 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


man passes, bound and walking between two police- 
men, do not add your curiosity to the impudent curi- 
osity of the crowd; he may not be guilty. Stop 
talking or smiling when you meet a hospital litter, 
which may be carrying a dying person, or a funeral 
procession; for one may leave from your own home on 
the morrow. Look with kindness upon all boys from 
the asylums, who walk two and two — the blind, the 
dumb, those afflicted with the rickets, orphans, aban- 
doned children; remember that it is misfortune and 
human charity which is passing by. Appear not to 
notice any one who has a queer or repulsive deformity. 
Always put out every match that you find in your 
path; for it may cost some one his life. Always 
answer a passer-by who asks you the way, with polite- 
ness. Do not look at any one and laugh; do not run 
without necessity ; do not shout. Respect the street. 
The education of a people is judged first of all by the 
way they behave on the street. Where you find 
offences in the streets, there you will find offences in 
the houses. Learn all the names of the streets, study 
the city in which you live. If you were to go far away 
from it to-morrow you would be glad to have it clearly 
present in your memory to be able to imagine you are 
walking in its streets. Your own city and your little 
country — that which has been for so many years a world 
to you where you took your first steps at your mother’s 
side; where you experienced your first emotions, 
opened your mind to its first ideas; found your first 
friends. It has been a mother to you ; it has taught, 
loved and protected you. Study it in its streets and 
in its people and love it; and when any one insults it 
protect it. 


Thy Father. 


MARCH 


THE EVENING SCHOOLS 

Thursday the 2nd. 

My father conducted me last night to see the even- 
ing classes in our Baretti schoolhouse, which were 
already all illuminated and the workingmen were com- 
mencing to enter. Upon our arrival we found the 
principal and the other teachers in a great rage, 
because shortly before the glass in one of the windows 
had been broken by a stone. The janitor had rushed 
out and seized a boy by the hair, who happened to 
pass just then; but thereupon, Stardi, who lives in 
the house opposite, had presented himself and said: 

He did not do it; I saw it with my own eyes. 
Franti threw it; and he said to me, 

“I pity you if you tell on me!” but I am not afraid. 

Then the principal said that Franti would be sus- 
pended for good. 

Meanwhile I was watching the workingmen enter by 
twos and threes, and more than two hundred had 
already come in, I had never seen anything so fine as 
the evening school. There were boys of twelve years 
and more ; bearded men on their way from their work, 
carrying their books and copy-books ; there were car- 
penters, engineers with black faces, masons with hands 
white with plaster, bakers’ boys with their hair full cf 
flour; and there was perceptible the odor of varnish, 
hides, fish, oil — odors of all the various trades. There 

173 


174 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


also entered a squad of artillery workmen dressed like 
soldiers and headed by a corporal. They all filed 
quickly to their desks, removed the board underneath 
on which we rest our feet, and immediately bent their 
heads over their work. 

Some stepped up to the teacher with their open 
copy-books in their hands to ask explanations. I saw 

that young 
man, well- 
dressed teach- 
er, “the little 
lawyer,” who 
had three or 
four working- 
men gathered 
around his ta- 
ble, and was 
making correc- 
tions with a 
dyer who had 
brought him a 
copy-book all decorated with red and blue dyes. My 
teacher, who had recovered, and who will return to 
school to-morrow was there also. The schoolroom 
doors were open. 

I was astonished, when the lessons began, to see 
how attentive they all were, and how they kept their 
eyes fixed on their work. Yet the principal said that 
most of them, for fear of being late, had not even gone 
home to eat a mouthful of supper, and were hungry. 

The younger ones, after having been in school for 
half an hour, nearly fell off the benches with sleep; 
one even went fast asleep with his head on the bench, 
and the teacher waked him up by tickling his ear with 



MARCH 


175 


a pen. But the grown-up men did not do this; they 
were awake listening with their mouths wide open, to 
the lesson, without even winking; and it impressed me 
deeply to see all those bearded men at our desks. 

We also ascended to the floor above and I ran to the 
door of my schoolroom and beheld seated in my place 
a man with a big mustache and a bandaged hand, who 
may have been injured while at work around a 
machine; still he was trying to write, though very, 
very slowly. 

But what pleased me most was to see in the seat of 
the little mason, on the very same bench and in the 
very same corner, his father, the mason, as big as a 
giant, sitting there all coiled up into a narrow space, 
with his chin on his fists and his eyes on his book, so 
deeply absorbed that he hardly breathed, and his 
being seated there was no chance for he himself said 
to the principal the first evening he came to the school: 

“Signor Director, do me the favor to place me in 
the seat of my hare’s face.’’ He always calls his son 
so. My father kept me there until the end, and in the 
street we saw many women with children in their 
arms, waiting for their husbands and at the entrance 
the women surrendered .their babies to their husbands 
while the husbands gave their wives their books and 
copy-books to carry and in this way they proceeded to 
their homes. The street was filled with people and 
with noise for several minutes. Then silence pre- 
vailed and all we could see was the tall and weary form 
of the principal disappearing in the distance. 


176 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


THE FIGHT 

Sunday, the 5th. 

One could not expect otherwise. Franti, on being 
expelled by the principal wanted to revenge himself on 
Stardi, and he waited for Stardi at a corner, when he 
came out of school, and when the latter, went by with 
his sister, whom he accompanied every day from an 
institution in Via Dora Grassia. 

My sister Silvia, on coming out from her school- 
house, saw the whole affair, and came home badly 
frightened. Franti, with his cap of waxed cloth, pulled 
down over one ear, ran up on tiptoe behind Stardi, 
and in order to anger him gave a jerk at his sister’s 
braid of hair — a jerk so violent that it almost threw 
the girl flat on her back, to the ground. The little girl 
gave a cry of pain, her brother turned quickly around. 
Franti, who is much taller and stronger than Stardi, 
thought : 

He’ll not utter a word, or I’ll give him a good whip- 
ping. 

But Stardi never paused for a moment and small and 
ill-made as he is, he jumped at the big fellow with one 
bound and began to beat him with his fists. He could 
not hold his own, however, and he got more than he 
gave. There was no one in the street but girls, so 
there was no one who could stop the quarrel. Franti 
flung him on the ground; but the other instantly got 
up, and then down he went on his back again, and 
Franti hitting as hard as though pounding upon a 
door; in an instant he had little Stardi’s ear half torn 
away and one eye bruised and blood flowing from his 
nose. But Stardi was stubborn ; he roared : 

“You may kill me, but I’ll have revenge!” 

And down went Franti, kicking and punching, and 



THE 


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MARCH 


177 


Stardi under him, butting and lunging out with his 
heels. 

A woman shouted from a window, “Good for the 
little one!” 

Others said, it is a boy defending his sister; courage ! 
give it to him well! And they screamed at Franti, 
“You unbearable beast, you coward!” But Franti 
had grown savage. He held out his leg; Stardi 
tripped and fell, and Franti on top of him. 

“Give up!”— “No!” “Give up!”— “No!” and in a 
flash Stardi recovered his feet, clasped Franti by the 



body and with a terrible effort hurled him on the pave- 
ment, and fell upon him with one knee on his breast. 

“Ah, the villainous fellow! he has a knife! shouted 
a man, rushing up to take it away from Franti. But 
Stardi with a savage madness, had already grasped 
Franti 's arm with both hands, and gave him such a 
bite on the fist that the knife fell from it, and the hand 
began to bleed. A crowd commenced to gather and 
soon separated them and set them on their feet. Franti 
took to his heels in an awful condition and Stardi stood 
still with his face all scratched and a black eye — but 
triumphant — beside his weeping sister, while some of 


178 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


the girls collected the books and copy-books which were 
scattered over the street. 

‘‘Bravo, little fellow!” said the lookers-on, “he 
defended his sister!” 

But Stardi who was thinking more of his satchel 
than of his winning the fight, instantly set to examin- 
ing the books and copy-books one by one, to see 
whether anything was missing or injured. He cleaned 
them with his sleeve, looked at his pen, put every- 
thing back in its place, and then quite tranquil and 
serious as usual, he said to his sister, “Let us hurry 
home for I have a problem to solve.” 

THE PARENTS OF THE BOYS 

Monday, the 6th. 

Big Stardi, the father, came to wait this morning 
for his son, for fear that he should again meet Franti. 
But Franti, they say, will never be seen again, because 
he will be put in the penitentiary. 

A great many parents were there this morning. 

Among them was the retail wood dealer, Coretti’s 
father, the exact picture of his son, slender, jolly, with 
his mustache brought to a point, and a ribbon of two 
colors in the buttonhole of his jacket. I know nearly 
all of the boys’ parents from constantly seeing them 
there. There is a stooped grandmother with her 
white cap, who, whether it rains, snows or storms, 
comes four times each day to escort and to get her 
little grandson, of the higher primary grade. 

She takes off his little cloak and helps him on with 
it, adjusts his necktie, brushes him off, polishes him 
up, and looks after his copy-books. One can see that 
she has no other thought and that she sees nothing in 


MARCH 


179 


the world more beautiful. Oftentimes comes the cap- 
tain of artillery, the father of Robetti, the lad with 
the crutches, who saved a child from the omnibus, and 
as all his son’s schoolmates give him a caress passing, 
he returns a caress or a salute to every one, never 
forgetting any one ; he bends over all and the poorer 
and more badly dressed they are, the more pleased he 
seems to be, and he thanks them. 

Sometimes, however, sad sights are seen. A gentle- 
man who had not come for a month because one of his 
sons had died, and who had been sending a maid 
servant for the other, upon returning yesterday and 
beholding the class, the comrades of his little dead 
boy, went into a corner and burst out crying bitterly 
covering his face with both hands, and the principal 
took him by the arm and led him to his office. 

There are fathers and mothers who know all their 
son’s schoolmates by name. There are girls from the 
nearby schoolhouse, and scholars in the gymnasium 
who come to wait for their brothers. There is an old 
gentleman formerly a colonel who picks up a copy- 
book or a pen whenever a boy drops them. Well 
dressed men can also be seen discussing school mat- 
ters with those who wear handkerchiefs on their heads, 
and carry baskets on their arms, and who say : 

“Oh! the problem was a hard one this time — that 
grammar lesson never seemed to come to an end this 
morning!” 

Should there be a sick boy in the class everyone 
knows about it and when a sick boy is better all 
rejoice. Precisely this morning there were eight or 
ten well dressed men and men dressed in their work- 
ing clothes standing around Crossi’s mother, the 
vegetable vender, making inquiries about a poor child 


i8o A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 

in my brother’s class, who lives in her court and who 
is dying. It seems that the teacher makes them all 
equal and friendly. 


NUMBER 78 

Wednesday, the 8th. 

Yesterday afternoon I witnessed an affecting scene. 
Singe several days every time that the vegetable ven- 
der has passed by Derossi she has looked at him with 
an expression of great affection; for Derossi, after 
having made the discovery about that inkstand and 
prisoner Number 78 acquired a fondness for her son, 
Crossi, the red-haired boy with the useless arm ; and 
he helps him with his work in school, suggests answers 
to him, gives him paper, pens and pencils, in short he 
treats him like a brother, as though to compensate him 
for his father’s misfortune, which has touched him, 
although not aware of it. 

The vegetable-vender has been staring at Derossi 
for several days, and she seemed as if she never 
wanted to take her eyes from him, for she is a good 
woman who lives only for her son; and Derossi who 
helps him and makes him appear well, Derossi, who is 
a gentleman and the head of the class, seems to her a 
king, a saint. She always stared at him, and seemed 
anxious to say something to him, yet ashamed to do it. 
But yesterday morning she finally took courage and 
stopped him in front of a gate and said to him : 

“Excuse me, little master! Will you, who are so 
good and who are so fond of my son, do me the favor 
to accept this little remembrance from a poor mother?’’ 
and she pulled out of her vegetable basket a little 
white and gold pasteboard box. 



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Derossi, blushing, refused and said quickly: 

“Give it to your son: I will not accept anything.” 

The woman was mortified and stammered an excuse : 

“I did not mean to offend you. It only contains 
caramels. ’ ’ 

But Derossi said “No” again, shaking his head. 

Then timidly lifting from her basket a bunch of 
radishes, she said: 

“At least accept these — they are fresh — and carry 
them to your mamma.” 

Derossi smiled, and said: “No, thank you. I don’t 
want anything; I shall always do what I can for 
Crossi, but I will not accept anything. Thank you, 
all the same. ” 

“But you are not offended, are you?” asked the 
woman, anxiously. 

Derossi said, “No, No!” smiled and ran off, while 
she exclaimed, joyfully: 

“Oh, what a good boy! I have never seen so kind 
and handsome a boy as he!” 

And that seemed to be the end of it. But that 
afternoon at four instead of Crossi’s mother, his father 
approached with that white melancholy face of his. 
He stopped Derossi and from the manner in which he 
gazed at the latter I immediately understood that he 
suspected Derossi of knowing his secret. He looked 
at him fixedly and said in his sad, affectionate voice: 

“You are fond of my son. Why do you like him so 
much?” 

Derossi’s face turned as red as fire. He would have 
wished to say: “I love him because he has been 
unfortunate ; because you, his father have been more 
unfortunate than guilty and have nobly paid the 
penalty of your crime, and are a good-hearted man.” 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


182 

But he did not have the courage to say it, for at the 
bottom he still felt fear and he almost shuddered in 
the presence of this man who had shed another’s blood 
and had been six years in prison. Yet the latter 
guessed it all, and whispered in Derossi’s ear, almost 
trembling : 

“You love the son; but you do not hate, do not 
wholly despise the father, do you?” 

“Oh, no, no! Quite the contrary!’’ exclaimed 
Derossi, with a soulful impulse. And then the man 
made an impetuous movement, as if to throw one arm 
around his neck, but he dared not, and instead took 
one of the lad’s golden curls between two of his fin- 
gers, smoothed it out, then released it; then placing 
his hand on his mouth he kissed his palm, gazing at 
Derossi with tears in his eyes, as though to say that 
this kiss was for him. Then taking his son by the 
hand he went away rapidly. 


A LITTLE DEAD BOY 

Monday, the 13th. 

The little boy who lived in the vegetable vender’s 
court, the one who belonged to the higher primary, 
and was my brother’s school chum, is dead. Miss 
Delcati came on Saturday afternoon greatly afflicted, 
to inform the teacher about it; Garrone and Coretti 
instantly volunteerd to carry the coffin. He was a 
good little lad and had been awarded the medal last 
week. He was fond of my brother, and had presented 
him with a broken money-box. Whenever they met 
my mother always caressed him. He wore a cap with 
two red cloth stripes. His father was a porter on the 


MARCH 


183 


railway. Yesterday (Sunday) afternoon, at half-past 
four o’clock we went to his house to accompany him to 
the church. 

They live on the ground floor. There were already 
gathered in the courtyard many boys of the upper 
primary, with their mothers, all holding candles, and 
five or six teachers and several neighbors. 

The teacher who wears the red feather and Miss 
Delcati went into the house and we saw them weep- 
ing from an open window. The mother of the child 
could be heard sobbing loudly. 

Two ladies, mothers of two schoolmates of the dead 
child, had brought two wreaths of flowers. 

At five o’clock sharp we set out. A boy carrying a 
cross, then a priest, then the coffin, — a very, very 
small coffin, poor child ! — covered with a black cloth, 
and wound around were the wreaths of flowers which 
the two ladies brought. Pinned to the black cloth, on 
one side of the casket were the medal and honorable 
mentions which the little boy had won during the year. 
Garonne, Coretti, and two boys from the courtyard, 
bore the coffin. Behind the coffin first came Miss 
Delcati, weeping as though the little dead boy were 
her own; next came the other school-teachers; and 
behind the teachers the boys, among whom w^ere some 
very young ones, carrying bunches of violets in one 
hand and staring in astonishment at the bier, while 
their other hand was held by their mothers, who car- 
ried candles for them. I heard one of the children 
say, “And will he never come to school again?” 

When the coffin went out of the courtyard a desper- 
ate scream was heard from the window. It was the 
child’s mother; but they immediately pushed her back 
into the room. Arriving in the street, we met some 


184 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


college boys passing by in double file, who when catch- 
ing sight of the coffin with the medal and the school- 
teacher’s doffed their hats. 

Poor child ! he has gone to sleep forever with his 
medal. We shall never see his red cap again. He 
was perfectly well; in four days he was dead. He 
made an effort to rise on the last day and do his little 
task in nomenclature, and he insisted on keeping his 
medal on his. bed for fear it would be taken from him. 
No one will ever take it from you again, poor boy! 
Farewell, farewell! We shall always remember you 
at the Baretti School. Rest in peace, dear child ! 


THE EVE OF THE FOURTEENTH OF MARCH 

This has been a more cheerful day than yesterday. 
The thirteenth of March ! The eve of the distribution 
of prizes at the Victor Emanuel Theatre, the greatest 
and finest festival of the whole year! But this time 
the boys who are to go upon the stage and present the 
certificates of the prizes to the gentlemen who are to 
bestow them are not to be picked out haphazard. The 
principal came in this morning at the close of school, 
and said : 

“Good news, boys!” Then he called: “Coraci!” 
the Calabrian. The Calabrian rose. “Would you like 
to be one of those to carry the certificates of the prizes 
to the authorizes at the theatre to-morrow?’’ 

The Calabrian answered in the affirmative; then 
there will also be a representative of Calabria there, 
and that will be a fine thing. The municipal author- 
ities this year wish to have the ten or twelve lads who 
hand the prizes all come from different parts of Italy, 


MARCH 


185 

and selected from all the public school buildings. We 
have twenty buildings, with five annexes, seven thou- 
sand pupils and among such a large number it was not 
difficult to select pupils, taking one boy for each 
region of Italy. 

Two representatives of the island were found in the 
Torquato Tasso schoolhouse, a Sardinian, and a 
Sicilian ; the Boucompagni School gave a little Floren- 
tine, the son of a wood-carver. In the Tomasseo 
School there is a Roman, native of Rome. Venetians, 
Lombards and natives of Romagna are abundant; the 
Monviso School gives us a Neapolitan, the son of an 
officer; we furnish a Genoese and a Calabrian, — you, 
Coraci, — with the Piemontese they number twelve. 
This is fine, don’t you think so? Your brothers from 
all parts of Italy will present you with prizes. Look 
out! the whole twelve will appear* on the stage 
together. Give them hearty applause. They are 
only boys, still they represent the country just as 
though they were men. A small tri-colored flag is as 
much the symbol of Italy as a large one, is it not? 
Applaud them warmly, then. Show that your little 
hearts are all aglow, that your souls of ten years grow 
enthusiastic in the presence of the sacred image of 
your native country.” 

Having said this, he went away and the teacher 
said, smiling, “Then, Coraci, you are to be the deputy 
from Calabria.” 

Then all clapped their hands and laughed; and 
when we got into the street, we surrounded Coraci, 
lifted him by the legs, held him up high, and set out 
to carry him triumphantly, shouting, “Hurrah for the 
Deputy of Calabria!” so as to make a noise of course; 
not jestingly, but quite the contrary, to make a cele- 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


1 86 

bration for him, and willingly, for he is a boy who 
pleases everyone ; and Coraci was smiling. And 
thus we carred him as far as the corner, where we ran 
into a gentleman with a black beard, who began to 
laugh. The Calabrian said, “It is my father,” and 
then the boys, placing his son in his arms, ran away 
in all directions. 

THE DISTRIBUTION OF PRIZES 

Tuesday, the 14th. 

Just about two o’clock the immense theatre was 
crowded, — parquet, gallery, boxes, stage, all were 
packed; thousands of faces, — boys, gentlemen, teach- 
ers, working men, women of the people, babies. 
There is a moving of heads and hands, a flutter of 
feathers, ribbons and curls and loud and merry mur- 
murs which showed every one was happy. The theatre 
was all decorated with festoons of white, red and green 
cloth. In the parquet two little stairways had been 
built; one on the right which the winners of prizes 
were to ascend in order to reach the stage ; the other, 
on the left, which they were to descend after receiving 
their prizes. On the front of the platform there was a 
row of red chairs ; and extending back from the one in 
the center hung a little laurel wreath. At the back of 
the stage was a trophy of flags ; on one side stood a 
small green table, piled up with certificates of pre- 
miums, tied with tri-colored ribbons. A band of 
music was situated in the parquet under the stage ; the 
schoolmasters and mistresses filled one side of the first 
balcony, which had been kept for them. The seats 
and aisles of the parquet were packed with hundreds 
of boys who were to sing, and who had written music 


MARCH 


187 


in their hands. At the back and about, the masters 
and mistresses could be seen going back and forward, 
arranging the scholars who were to take prizes in line 
and it was crowded with parents who were giving a 
final touch to their hair and the last pull to their neck- 
ties. 

As soon as I entered one of the boxes with my par- 
ents I beheld in the opposite box the young* teacher 
with the red feather, who was smiling and showing all 
the pretty dimples in her cheeks, and those who 
accompanied her were my brother's teacher and “the 
little nun,’’ dressed all in black, and my kind teacher 
of the upper first ; but she was so pale, poor thing, her 
cold was so bad she could be heard coughing all 
through the theatre. In the parquet I instantly saw 
Garrone’s dear, big face and the little blond head of 
Nelli, who was leaning on his friend’s shoulder. 
Towards the front of the theatre I saw Garoffi, with 
his owl’s-beak nose, who was making great efforts to 
collect the printed catalogues of the prize-winners; 
and he already had a large bundle of them which he 
could put to some use in his bartering — we shall find 
out what it is to-morrow. Near the door was the 
wood-seller with his wife, — both dressed in their best 
cloths, — together with their boy, who has a third prize 
in the second grade. Astonishment overtook me on 
not seeing the usual catskin cap and the chocolate- 
colored tights, which he wore, but on this occasion he 
was dressed like a little gentleman. In one balcony I 
caught for a moment a glance of Votini, with a large 
lace collar; then he disappeared. In a proscenium 
box filled with people, was the artillery captain, the 
father of Robetti, the boy with the crutches, who 
saved the child from the omnibus. 


i88 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


At two o’clock the band began to play and at the 
same moment the mayor, the chief of police, the 
judge and other gentlemen all dressed in black, went 
up the stairs on the right, and seated themselves on 
the red chairs at the front of the platform. The band 
stopped playing and the leader of singing in the 
schools advanced with a baton in his hand. At a sig- 
nal from him all the boys in the parquet stood up and 
with another sign they began to sing. 

There were seven hundred boys singing an excellent 
song together and it sounded beautiful. All listened 
silently. It was a slow, sweet, limpid song, which 
seemed like a church chant. 

When the song ended there was a general applause 
and then all became very still. The distribution of 
the prizes was about to begin. My little teacher of 
the second grade, with his red head and his quick 
eyes, who was to read the names of the prize-winners, 
had already come forward to the front of the stage. 
They were waiting for the entrance of the twelve boys 
who were to present the certificates. The newspaper 
had already announced that there would be boys from 
all the provinces of Italy. Every one had read the 
article and were watching and gazing curiously 
towards the door, where they were to enter, and the 
mayor and the other gentlemen who were seated on 
the stage, gazed also, and silence prevailed through 
the entire theatre. 

J ust then the twelve boys arrived on the stage hur- 
riedly, and stood smiling all in a line. The whole 
theatre, three thousand persons, sprang up together, 
breaking into applause which sounded like a clap of 
thunder. The boys stood for a moment as discon- 
certed. “Behold Italy!’’ said a voice on the stage. 


MARCH 


89 


Suddenly I recognized Coraci, the Calabrian, who was 
always dressed in black. A gentleman belonging to 
the municipal government, sat next to us and who 
knew them all, pointed them out to my mother. 

“That little blond is the representative of Venice. 
The Roman is that tall, curly-haired boy standing 
there.” 

Two or three of them were very well dressed; the 
others were hard working men’s boys, but all looked 
clean and neat. 

The Florentine, who was the smallest, had a blue 
scarf around his waist. 

They all passed in front of the mayor, who kissed 
them, one after the other, on the brow, while a gentle- 
man seated next to him smilingly told him the names 
of their cities: “Florence, Naples, Bologna, Pal- 
ermo”; and as each passed by, the crowd cheered. 

Then they all hurried to the green table, to take the 
certificates. The teacher commenced to read the list, 
calling out the schoolhouses, the classes and the 
names; the prize-winners began to mount the stage 
and to file past. The first ones had hardly reached 
the stage, when behind the scenes there could be 
heard a very, very faint music of violins, which con- 
tinued during the whole time that they were filing 
past — soft and always in the right time, like the mur- 
mur of many low voices, the voices of all the mothers, 
and all the masters and mistresses, giving good advice 
to all the children and beseeching and administering 
loving reproofs. And meanwhile the prize-winners 
passed, one by one, in front of the seated gentlemen, 
who gave them their certificates, and gave each a kind 
word and a caress. 

The boys in the parquet and the balconies applauded 


190 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


loudly every time that there passed a very small lad, 
or one who looked from his dress to be poor; and also 
for those who had abundant, curly hair, or who wore 
red or white. Some of those who marched past 
belonged to the upper primary and once arrived there, 
the got all mixed up and did not know where to turn, 
and this made the crowd laugh. One passed, who was 
not quite three feet, with a large bow of pink ribbon 
on his back, so that he could hardly walk, and he got 
entangled in the carpet and tumbled down; and the 
chief of police set him on his feet again, and all 
laughed and clapped. 

Another fell head first down the stairs, when he was 
returning to the parquet. Cries arose, but he had not 
hurt himself. Boys of all sorts passed, — boys with 
roguish faces, with frightened faces, with faces as red 
as cherries; comical little fellows, who laughed in 
every one’s face ; and no sooner had they returned to 
their seats than they were seized upon by their fathers 
and mothers, who carried them away. 

When it came to the time for our schoolhouse to be 
represented I was happy. Many whom I knew 
passed, Coretti marched by, dressed in new clothes 
from head to foot; with his happy smile, which showed 
all his white teeth; but who knows how many myria- 
grammes of wood he had already carried that morning ! 
The mayor, on presenting him with his certificate, 
asked what the red mark on his forehead meant and as 
he did so, laid one hand on his shoulder. I looked in 
the parquet for his father and mother, and saw them 
laughing, while they covered their mouths with one 
hand. Then Derossi went by dressed in bright blue, 
with his head covered with golden curls, slender, easy 
with his head held high, -so hands unc and so sympa- 


MARCH 


191 


thetic, that I could have given him a kiss ; and all the 
gentlemen wanted to speak to him and to shake his 
hand. 

Then the teacher cried, “Giulio Robetti!” and we 
saw the captain’s son come forward on his crutches. 
Hundreds of boys knew what had happened, for the 
rumor had spread in a minute. Tremendous applause 
arose which shook the theatre : men sprang to their 
feet, the ladies began to wave their handkerchiefs, and 
the poor boy stopped in the middle of the stage, 
frightened and confused. The mayor drew him to 
him, gave him his prize and a kiss, and taking down 
the laiirel wreaths which were hanging from the back 
of the chair, he hung it on the cross-bar of his crutches. 
Then he led him to the proscenium box, where his 
father the captain, had his seat, and the latter lifted 
him in his arms and set him down beside his father 
amid a wild uproar of bravos and hurrahs. 

All during this time the soft and gentle music of the 
violins continued, and the boys continued to march 
by, — those from the Schoolhouse of the Consolata, 
nearly all the sons of retail merchants ; those from the 
Vanchiglia School, the sons of the workingmen; many 
from the Boncompagni School, who were the sons’ of 
peasants; those of the Rayneri, which was the last. 
When it was over, the seven hundred boys in the pit 
sang another very beautiful song; then the mayor 
made a little speech, and after him the judge, who 
changed his subject by saying to the boys: 

“But do not leave this place without a salute, giv- 
ing a salute of thanks to those who toil so hard for 
you; who have consecrated to you all the strength cf 
their intelligence and of their hearts; who live and die 
for you. There they are; look at them!’’ and he 


192 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


pointed to the balcony of teachers. At that moment 
from the balconies the parquet the boxes, the boys 
rose and put out their arms towards the teachers with 
a shout and in response the latter waved their hands, 
hats, and handkerchiefs, as they all stood up in their 
emotion. Finally the band played once more, and the 
crowd gave the final salute to the twelve lads of all the 
provinces of Italy, who came forward to the front of 
the stage, in line, with their hands interlaced, and the 
flowers showered down upon them. 


STRIFE 


^ Monday, the 26th. 

Nevertheless it is not out of envy, because he got 
the prize and I did not, that I quarreled with Coretti 
this morning. The teacher had placed him beside me, 
and I was writing in my copy-book for calligraphy; he 
pushed my elbow and made me blot and soil the 
monthly story “Blood of Romagna,” which I had to 
copy for the little mason, who is ill. I got angry, and 
spoke rudely to him. 

He smiled and said, “I did not do it purposely.” I 
ought to have believed him, because I know him; but 
it hurt me to see his smile and I thought: 

“Oh! now that he has received a prize, he has 
grown proud!” and shortly, to revenge myself, I 
pushed him so hard that he spoiled his page. 

Then, turning scarlet with great anger, “You have 
done that intentionally, he exclaimed, raising his 
hand, but noticed the teacher and drew it back. But 
he added: 

“I will wait outside for you.” 


MARCH 


193 


I felt ill at ease; my wrath had vanished and I 
repented. No; Coretti could not have done it on pur- 
pose. He is good, I thought. I remembered how I 
had seen him in his own home ; how he had worked 
and assisted his sick mother; the hearty welcome he 
had received in my house* and how much he had 
pleased my father. 

What would I not have given to be able to take that 
insulting word back, not to have offended him thus! 
And I thought of the advice that my father had given 
me: 

“It is your fault?” — “Yes.” — “Then beg his par- 
don.” But I did not dare do this for I was ashamed 
to humiliate myself. I looked at him out of the corner 
of my eye, and noticed that his coat was ripped on the 
shoulder, — probably from carrying too much wood, — 
and I felt that I loved him and said to myself, “Cour- 
age!” but the words, “excuse me,” stuck in my throat. 
He glanced at me askance from time to time, and he 
seemed to me to be more grieved than angry. 

But then I looked angrily at him, to show him that 
I was not afraid. 

He repeated, “We shall meet outside!” And I 
said, “We shall meet outside!” But I was thinking 
of what my father had once said to me, “If you ^ are 
wronged defend yourself but do not fight.” 

And J said to myself, “I will defend myself, but I 
will not fight.” But I was displeased and I no longer 
listened to the teacher. Finally the moment of dis- 
missal arrived. When I was alone in the street I 
noticed that he followed me. I stood still and waited 
for him with my ruler ready in my hand. I raised my 
ruler. 

“No, Enrico,” he said, smiling kindly and waving 


194 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


the ruler aside with his hand; “let us be friends 
again, as before. ’ ’ 

I stood motionless in astonishment, then I felt as 
though a hand was pushing my shoulders, and I found 
myself in his arms. He kissed me, and said: ^ 

“We will have no more quarrels between us, will 


“Never, again! never again!” I replied. And we 
parted merrily. But when I returned home, and told 
my father what had happened, thinking that it would 
please him, he frowned and said: “You should have 
been the first to offer your hand, since it was your 
fault.’’ Then he added, “You should not raise your 
ruler at a comrade who is better than you are — at the 
son of a soldier!’’ and wrenching the ruler from my 
hand, he broke it in two, and flung it against the wa' 



MY SISTER 


Friday, the 24th. 


“Why, Enrico, after our father had reproached you 
for having treated Coretti so badly, were you so unkind 
to me? You cannot imagine how it hurt me. Do you 
not know that when you were a baby, I remained for 
hours and hours beside your cradle, instead of playing 
with my companions and that when you were ill, I got 
out of bed every night to feel whether your forehead 
was burning? 

“Do you not know, you who give pain to your sister, 
that if an awful misfortune should come over us, 1 
should be a mother to you and love you like a son? 
Do you not know that when our father and mother are 
no longer on earth I shall be your best friend, the only 


MARCH 


195 


person with whom you can talk of our dead parents 
and your infancy, and that I shall always love you 
when you grow older, that I shall keep you forever in 
my thoughts when you go far away, always because 
we grew up together and have the same blood? O, 
Enrico, when you are a man be sure that should mis- 
fortune come to you if you are alone, be very sure that 
you will look forme, that you will find me and say: 
‘Silvia, my sister, let me stay with you and we will 
talk of those happy days — do you remember? We will 
talk of our mother, of our home, of those beautiful 
days gone by. ’ O Enrico, you will always find your 
sister with her arms wide open. Yes, dear Enrico; 
and you must forgive me for the reproof that I am 
now giving you. I shall never recall any wrong of 
yours ; and should you give me other sorrows it does 
not matter. You will always be my brother, just 
the same ; I shall never think of you otherwise than as 
having held you in my arms when a baby, of having 
loved our father and mother with you, of having 
watched you grow up, of having been for years your 
most faithful companion. 

“But write me a kind word in this same copy-book, 
and I will come and read it before the evening. 
Meanwhile to show you that I am not angry with you 
I have copied fcr you the monthl}^ story, “Blood of 
Romagna,” which you were to have copied for the 
little sick mason, because I noticed that you were 
tired. You will find it in the left drawer of your 
table; I have been writing all night while you 
were sleeping. Write me a kind word, Enrico, I im- 
plore you. 

“Your Sister Sylvia.” 

“I am not worthy to kiss your hands — Enrico.” 


196 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 



BLOOD OF ROMAGNA 

(THE MONTHLY STORY) 

Ferruccio’s house was more silent 
than usual that evening. The father, 
who kept a little haberdasher’s shop, 
had^ gone to Forli to make some 
purchases, and his wife had accom- 
panied him, with Luigina, a baby 
whom she was taking to a doctor to 
have her diseased eyes operated 
upon, and they were not to return 
until the next morning. It was 
almost midnight. The woman who came to do the 
work during the day had gone away at nightfall. The 
grandmother, with the paralyzed legs and Ferruccio, 
a thirteen-year-old lad were the only ones in the house. 
It was a small one-story house situated on the high 
road at a gunshot’s distance from a village not far 
from Forli, a town of Romagna ; and near it there was 
only an uninhabited house, burnt two months pre- 
viously and now in ruins and on which the sign of an 
inn was still to be seen. Behind the small house was 



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MARCH 


197 


a tiny garden surrounded by a hedge, upon which a 
rustic gate opened; the door of the shop, which also 
led into the house, opened on the high road. All 
around spread the lonely country fields, vast cultivated 
plains, planted with mulberry trees. 

It was almost midnight; it was raining and the wind 
was blowing. Ferruccio and his grandmother who 
had not yet gone to bed, were in the dining-room, 
between which and the garden there was a small, 
spare room, encumbered with old furniture. Fer- 
ruccio had only returned home. At eleven o’clock 
Ferruccio had returned home after having been away 
for many hours, and his grandmother had waited for 
him with wide-open eyes, filled with anxiety, nailed to 
the large arm-chair, upon which she usually passed , 
the whole day and sometimes the entire night, because 
a difiSculty of breathing did not permit her to lie in 
bed. 

It was raining and the wind beat the rain against 
the window-panes; the night was very dark. Ferruc- 
cio had gone home tired, muddy, with his jacket 
torn, and the black and blue mark of a stone on his 
forehead. He had been stone fighting with his com- 
rades, but as usual they had come to blows and added 
to this he had gambled and lost all his pennies and 
left his cap in a large ditch. 

Though the kitchen was lighted only by a small oil 
lamp, placed on the corner of the table, near ‘the arm- 
chair, still his poor grandmother had immediately 
noticed the wretched condition of her grandson and 
had partly guessed, partly lead him to confess, his mis- 
deeds. 

She loved that boy with all her soul. When she had 
known all she started to cry. 


198 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


“Ah, no!’’ she then said, after a long silence, “you 
have no heart for your poor grandmother. You have 
no heart, to take advantage thus of the absence of 
your father and mother to give me sorrow. The 
whole day long you have left me alone and had not the 
slightest compassion. Take care, Ferruccio! You 
are taking an evil road which will lead you to a sad 
end. I have seen several others begin like you and 
come to a bad end. One begins by running away from 
home, by getting into quarrels with the other boys, by 
losing pennies, then little by little from stone fights 
you will come to knives, from gambling to other vices, 
and from vices to theft. ’ ’ 

Ferruccio stood listening three paces away, leaning 
against a cupboard, with his chin on his chest, his 
brows being still hot with terrible anger from the 
fight. A lock of fine chestnut hair fell across his fore- 
head and his blue eyes were motionless. 

“From gambling to theft!’’ his grandmother 
repeated, still weeping.’’ Think of it, Ferruccio! 
Think of that terror of the country about here, of that 
Vito Mozzoni, who is now in town playing the vaga- 
bond and who at twenty-four years of age has been 
twice in prison, and has made that poor woman, his 
mother, die of a broken heart — I knew her; and his 
father has fled to Switzerland in despair. Think of 
that bad fellow, whose bow your father is ashamed to 
return; he is always loafing with scoundrels worse 
than himself, and some day he will go to the galleys. 
Well I remember him as a boy, when he began as 
you are doing. Reflect that you will reduce your 
father and mother to the same end as his.’’ 

Ferruccio remained silent. He was not at all 
remorseful at heart; quite the contrary, his misde- 


MARCH 


199 


meanors arose rather from superabundance of life and 
audacity than from an evil mind; and his father had 
managed him badly in precisely this particular that, 
holding him capable at bottom of the finest sentiments 
and also when put to the proof, of a vigorous and 
generous action, he left the bridle loose upon his neck, 
and waited for him to acquire judgment for himself. 
The lad was good rather than perverse, but stubborn; 
and it was hard for him, even when his heart was filled 
with repentance to permit those good words which win 
pardon, to escape his lips. “If I have done wrong, I 
will not do it again; I promise it; forgive me.” At 
times his soul was full of tenderness, but pride would 
not allow it to show itself. 

“Ah, Ferruccio,” continued his grandmother, seeing 
him still dumb, not a word of repentance do you utter 
to me? You see to what a condition I am reduced that 
I am as good as buried. 

“You should not have the heart to make me suffer 
so, to make your grandmother who is so old and so 
near her last day weep; the poor woman who has 
always been so fond of you who rocked you all night 
long, night after night, when you were a mere child 
and who to amuse you did net eat, — you do not know 
that! I always said. This boy will be my consolation! 
and now you are injuring me deeply! I would gladly 
give the little life that remains to me if t could see 
you become a good and obedient boy as you were in 
those days when I used to accompany you to the 
sanctuary — do you remember, Ferruccio? When you 
used to fill my pockets with pebbles and I carried you 
up home in my arms fast asleep. You loved your 
poor grandma then. And now that I am a paralytic 
I long for your affections, which are as necessary to 


200 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


me as the air to breathe, because I have no one else in 
this world, poor half-dead woman that I am; my 
God!” 

Ferruccio was about to throw his arms around his 
grandmother’s neck, overcome with emotion, when he 
thought that he heard a faint sound, a creaking in the 
adjoining room, the one which opened on the garden. 
But he could not make out whether it was the window 
shutters rattling in the wind, or something else. 

He bent his head and listened. 

The rain fell noisily. 

He heard the noise again. This time his grand- 
mother also heard it. 

“What is it?” she asked, after a moment’s pause. 

‘‘The rain,” murmured the boy. 

‘‘Then, Ferruccio,” said the old woman, wiping her 
tears, ‘‘you promise me that you will be good, that you 
will not make your poor grandma cry again — ” 

Another slight sound interrupted her. 

‘‘But it does not seem tome to be the rain!” she 
exclaimed, becoming pale. ‘‘Go and see!” 

But she added instantly, ‘‘No; stay here!” and 
seized Ferruccio by the hand. 

Both stood still, holding their breath. 

They heard nothing but the sound of water. 

Then th^y shuddered, for it seemed to both that 
they heard footsteps in the next room. 

‘‘Who’s there?” demanded the lad, recovering his 
breath with an effort. 

No one replied. 

“Who is it?” again asked Ferruccio, chilled with 
terror. 

He had hardly pronounced these words when both 
gave a shriek of terror. Two men had sprung into 


MARCH 


201 


the room. One of them grasped the boy and placed a 
hand over his mouth; the other clutched the old 
woman by the throat. The first said : 

“Silence, unless you want to die!” 

The second: — 

“Be still!” raising a knife. 

Both men had dark cloths over their faces, with two 
holes for the eyes. 

Nothing was heard for a while but the gasping 
breath of all four and the beating of the rain; the old 
woman emitted frequent rattles from her throat, and 
her eyes were bulging from her head. 

“Where does your father keep his money?” asked 
the man who held the boy by the ear. 

The lad replied in a thin voice with chattering 
teeth, “Over there” — in the cupboard.” 

“Come along with me, ” said the man. Holding him 
tightly by the throat, the man dragged him into the 
little spare room where a dark lantern was standing 
on the floor. 

“Where is the cupboard?” he demanded. 

The suffocating boy pointed to the cupboard. 

Then, so as to make sure of the boy, the man threw 
him on his knees before the cupboard, and holding his 
neck closely between his own legs, so that he could 
strangle him if he screamed and putting his knife in 
his teeth and his lantern in one hand, with the other 
he pulled from his pocket a pointed iron, drove it into 
the lock, worked hard at it for a while, broke it, threw 
the doors wide open, turned everything upside down 
in a terrible fury of haste, filled his pockets, closed the 
cupboard, opened it again and made another search ; 
then he grabbed the boy by the throat again, and 
pushed him to where the other man was still holding 


202 


# 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


the old woman, who was in convulsions, with her head 
thrown back and her mouth open. 

His companion replied, “I found it.” Then added, 
“Guard the door.” 

The one holding the old woman ran to the door of 
the garden to see if the road was clear and from the 
little room he called in a voice resembling a hiss, 
“Come. ” 

The one who had remained behind, and who was 
still holding Ferruccio fast, showed his knife to the 
boy and to the old woman, who had opened her eyes 
again, and said, “ Do not utter a sound, or I’ll turn 
back and cut your throat. ’ ’ 

And he stared at both for a moment. 

Just then a song sung by several voices was heard 
far off on the high road. 

The robber looked around quickly toward the door 
and by a violent movement the cloth fell from his 
face. 

The old woman uttered a shriek; “Mozzoni!” 

“Accursed woman,” thundered the robber, on find- 
ing himself recognized, “you must die!” 

And he flung himself, with his knife ready against 
the old woman who swooned on the spot. 

The assassin dealt the blow. 

But Ferruccio, with a very rapid movement, and 
uttering a fearful scream, had rushed to his grand- 
mother, and shielded her body with his own. The 
assassin fled, stumbling against the table and overturn- 
■ ing the lamp, which was extinguished. 

Slowly the boy slipped from his grandmother’s 
body, fell on his knees, and remained thus with his 
arms around her body and his head on her bosom. 

A few moments passed. It was very dark and the 


MARCH 


203 


song of the peasants had gradually died away in the 
fields. Recovering her senses the old woman cried in 
a voice hardly intelligihle with chattering teeth, 
“Ferruccio.” 

“Grandma!” replied the lad. The old woman made 
an effort to speak, but the awful terror had paralyzed 
her tongue. She remained silent for a while, trem- 
bling violently. 

Then she succeeded in asking, “Arc they here still?” 

“No.” 

“They did not kill me,” murmured the old woman 
in a choking voice. 

“No; you are safe,” said Ferruccio, weakly. 

“You are safe, dear grandma. They carried off the 
money. But papa had taken nearly all of it away with 
him. ’ ’ 

His grandmother drew a breath of relief. 

“Grandma,” said Ferruccio, still kneeling, and 
pressing her close around the waist, “dear grandma, 
you love me, don’t you?” 

“O Ferruccio! my poor little grandson!” she 
replied, placing her hands on his head ; how fright- 
ened you must have been! — O Lord God of Mercy! 
— Light the lamp. No, let us remain in the dark! I 
am still afraid.” 

“Grandma,” resumed the boy, “I have always 
brought you sorrow.” 

“No, Ferruccio, do not say such things; I shall 
never think of that again ; I have forgotten all, I love 
you so much!” 

“I have always brought you sorrow,” pursued 
Ferruccio, with difficulty and his voice quivering; 
“but I have always loved you. Do you forgive me? 
Forgive me, grandma. ’ ’ 


204 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


“Yes, my son, I forgive you with all my heart. 
Think, how could I help forgiving you! Rise from 
your knees, my child. I will never scold you again. 
You are good, so good! Let us light the lamp again. 
Let us take courage a little. Rise , Ferruccio. ’ ’ 

“Thank you, grandma,’' said the boy, with a still 
weaker voice. “Now — I am happy. You will remem- 
ber me, grandma — will you not? You will always 
remember me-r-your Ferruccio?’’ 

“My Ferruccio!” exclaimed his grandmother, stupe- 
fied and alarmed, and she laid her hands on his shoul- 
ders and bent her head, as though to look into his 
face. 

“Remember me,’’ murmured the boy again in a 
breath-like voice. “Give a kiss to my mother — to my 
father — to Luigina — Farewell, grandma.” 

“In the name of Heaven, what is the matter with 
you? screamed the old woman, feeling the boy’s head 
anxiously, as it lay upon her knees ; and then with all 
the power of voice of which her throat was capable, 
and* desperately, she shrieked: “Ferruccio! Fer- 
ruccio! Ferruccio, my child! My love! Angels of 
Paradise help me!’’ 

But Ferruccio could not reply for the little hero, 
who had given up his life for the mother of his mother, 
stabbed by a blow from a knife in the back, had ren- 
dered up his beautiful and daring soul to God. 


THE LITTLE MASON VERY ILL 

Tuesday, the 28th. 

The teacher told us to go and see him, for he said 
the little mason was very ill, so Garrone, Derossi and 
I determined to go together. Stardi would have come 


MARCH 


205 


also, but as the teacher had assigned us the descrip> 
tion of the monument to Cavour he told us that he 
must go and see the monument in order that he might 
be able to describe it exactly. So, we tried a little 
experiment on the vain Nobis, who replied “No," 
abruptly. Votini had also an excuse; no doubt he 
was afraid of soiling his clothes with plaster. 

On leaving school at four o’clock we went there. 
There was a terrible rain storm. While on our way 
Garrone stopped and said, with his mouth full of 
bread: “What shall I buy?" and he rattled a couple 
of pennies in his pocket. We each had two pennies 
apiece, and so of course bought three large oranges. 
We climbed to the attic, and just at the door Derossi 
took off his medal and put it in his pocket. I asked 
him why. 

“I don’t know," he answered; “in order not to be 
proud, it strikes me as more polite to go in without 
my medal." 

We knocked; the father, who was as tall as a giant, 
opened the door. His face was distorted so that he 
appeared terrified. 

“Who are you?" he demanded of Garrone, who 
replied : 

“We are Antonio’s schoolmates, and we have 
brought him three oranges.’’ 

“Ah, poor Tonio!" exclaimed the mason, shaking 
his head. “I am afraid he will never eat your 
oranges!" And he wiped his eyes with the baek of 
his hand. He invited us in, and we entered an attic 
room, where we saw “the little mason" asleep in a 
little iron bed. His mother leaned anxiously over the 
bed, with her face in her hands, and she hardly turned 
around when we went in. At the side hung brushes, 


ao6 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


a towel and a plaster sieve; over the feet of the sick 
boy was spread the mason’s jacket, with lime. The 
poor boy was very much thinner and paler, his nose 
was pointed, and his breath was short. Oh, dear 
Tonio, my little school chum! you who were so kind 
and jolly, how it pains me ! I would give anything to 
see you make the hare’s face once more, poor little 
mason ! Garrone laid an orange on his pillow right 
near his face, and the odor waked him ; he grasped it 
instantly, then let go of it, and gazed fixedly at Gar- 
rone. 

“It is I,” said the latter; “Garrone; do you know 
me?’’ * 

He smiled faintly, and with diflhculty held out his 
little fat hand to Garrone, who held it between his and 
pressed it against his cheek, saying: 

“Courage, courage, little mason; you will get well 
in no time and return to school and the teacher will 
seat you right near me; how do you like that?” 

But the little mason remained silent. His mother 
burst into sobs : 

“Oh, my poor. Tonio! My poor Tonio! He is so 
brave and good, and God is going to take him from 
us!” 

“Be quiet!” cried the mason. “Silence, for the love 
of God, or I will go crazy!” Then he said to us, with 
anxiety: “Go, go, boys; thanks, go! What do you 
want to do here? Thanks; go home!” 

The boy had closed his eyes again, and appeared to 
be dead. 

“Can I do anything for you?” asked Garrone. 

“No, my good boy; thanks,” the mason answered. 

And so saying, he pushed us out on the landing and 
closed the door. But we were not half-way down the 


MARCH 


207 


stairs when we heard him calling, “Garrone! Gar- 
rone!” 

We all three ran up the stairs once more in a terrible 
hurry. 

“Garrone!” shouted the mason, with a changed 
countenance; “he has called you byname; it is two 
days since he spoke; he has called you twice; he wants 
you; come quickly! Ah, merciful God, if this is only 
a good sign!” 

“Good-bye for the time being,” said Garrone to us; 
“I will stay for a while,” and he returned to the little 
room with the father. Derossi’s eyes filled with tears. 
I said to him: 

“Are you crying for the little mason? He has 
spoken; he will recover.” 

“I believe it,” replied Derossi; “but I was not 
thinking of him. I was thinking how good Garrone 
is, and what a noble soul he has. ’ ’ 


COUNT CAVOUR 

Wednesday, the 29th. 

“It is a description of the monument to Count 
Cavour that you must make. You are able to do it. 
But who the Count Cavoiir was you cannot understand 
at present. For the present remember this, that he 
was for many years the prime minister of Piemont. 
It was he who sent the Piemontese army to the Crimea 
to raise once more, with the victory of the Cermaia, 
our military glory, which had fallen v/ith the defeat at 
Novara; it was he who made one hundred and fifty 
thousand Frenchmen descend from the Alps to drive 
the Austrians from Lombardy; it was he who gov- 


20S 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


erned Italy in the most solemn period of our revolu- 
tion ; who gave, during those years, the most powerful 
impulse to the sacred enterprise of the unification of 
our country, — he with his enlightened mind, with his 
invincible perseverance, with his more than human 
industry. Many generals passed terrible hours on the 
field of battle; but he passed more terrible ones in his 
cabinet, when his gigantic work might get destroyed 
at any moment, like a fragile edifice at the tremor of 
an earthquake. Hours, nights of struggle and 
anguish did he pass enough to make him issue from it 
with reason distorted and death in his heart. And it 
was this colossal and stormy work which shortened his 
life by twenty years. ' However, taken away by the 
fever which was to lay him into his grave, he yet 
' fought desperately with the sickness so as to accom- 
plish something for his country. ‘It is strange,’ he 
said sadly, on his deathbed, ‘I no longer know how to 
read ; I can no longer read. ’ 

While they were bleeding him, and the fever was 
increasing, he thought of his country and said, com- 
mandingly: “Cure me; my mind is becoming clouded 
and I have need of all my faculties to manage impor- 
tant affairs.’’ When he was already reduced to 
extremities and the whole city was in a tumult, and 
the king stood at his bedside, he said anxiously: “I 
have mauy things to say to you, sire, many things to 
show you; but I am ill; I cannot, I cannot;’’ and he 
was in despair. 

And his feverish thoughts hovered ever round the 
State, round the new Italian provinces which had been 
united with us, round the many things which still 
remained undone. When delirium seized him, “Edu- 
cate the children!” he exclaimed, between his gasps 


MARCH 


2og 


for breath, — “educate the children and the young 
people — govern with liberty!” 

His delirium increased; death hovered over him, 
and he spoke with burning words of General Garibaldi, 
with whom he had had disagreements, and Venice and 
Rome, which were not yet liberated ; he had vast vi- 
sions of the future of Italy and of Europe ; he dreamed 
of a foreign invasion ; he inquired where the corps of 
the army were, and the generals ; he still trembled for 
us, for his people. His great sorrow was not, you 
understand, that he felt that his life was going, but to 
see himself fleeing his country, which still needed him, 
and for which he had, in a few years, worn out the 
measureless strength of his wonderful organism. He 
died with the battle-cry in his throat, and his death 
was as great as his life. Now think a little, Enrico, 
what sort of a thing is our labor, which nevertheless 
so weighs us down; what are our griefs, our death 
itself, in the face of the toils, the terrible anxieties, the 
tremendous agonies of those men upon whose hearts 
rests a world! Always remember, my son, when you 
pass before that marble statue, and say to it, “Glory!” 
in your heart. Your Father. 


APRIL 


SPRING 

Saturday, the ist. 

And it is the first of April! This has been one of 
the most beautiful mornings of the year; still we have 
three months more of school. I was happy all day in 
school because Coretti had invited me with him and 
his father who knows the king, to see His Majesty 
make his entrance, and because my mother had prom- 
ised to take me the same day to visit the Infant 
Asylum in the Corso Valdocco. I was also happy 
because the little mason is better, and because the 
teacher said to my father yesterday evening as he was 
passing, “He is doing well; he is doing well.” 

Oh, but it was a beautiful spring morning! I 
watched from the school windows the blue sky, the 
trees of the garden all covered with buds, and the 
wide-open windows of the houses, with their boxes 
and vases already growing green. The master did 
not laugh, because he is always serious ; but he was 
in a happy mood, so that his perpendicular wrinkle 
hardly ever appeared on his brow ; and while explain- 
ing a problem on the blackboard he made us all laugh. 
All the boys could tell he felt a pleasure in breathing 
the air of the gardens which came through the open 
window, redolent with the sweet odor and leaves 
which suggested thoughts of happy hours spent in the 
country. 

While he w^as explaining we could hear in a neigh- 
boring street a blacksmith hammering on his anvil, 
and in a house across the street a woman singing to 

210 


APRIL 


2II 


lull her baby to sleep; away in the distance in the 
Cermaia barracks, the trumpets were sounding. Every 
one looked happy, even Stardi. All at once the black- 
smith began to hammer with more force, the woman’s 
voice became stronger. The teacher stopped and 
listened also, then he said slowly, as he looked out of 
the window: 

“The smiling sky, a singing mother, an honest man 
at work, boys at study, — what lovely things these 
are!’’ 

When school was over for the day we saw that every 
one else was cheerful also. All walked side by side, 
stamping loudly with their feet , and humming as 
though on the eve of a four days’ vacation; the school 
teachers were also happy; especially the one with the 
red feather, who skipped along behind the children 
like a schoolgirl; the parents cf the boys were chat- 
ting together and smiling, and Crossi’s mother, the 
vegetable vender, had such a large basket of violets 
that they perfximed the great hall. 

I have never felt so happy as I do this morning on 
meeting my mother, who was waiting for me in the 
street. And I said to her as I ran to meet her : 

“Oh, I am so happy! What is it that makes me feel 
so content this morning?’’ And my mother answered 
me with a smile that it was the beautiful spring days 
and a clear conscience. 

KING HUMBERT 

Monday, the 3d. 

At ten o’clock sharp my father perceived from the 
window Coretti, the wood-seller, and his son, waiting 
for me in the square, and said to me : 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


^12 

“They are there, Enrico; go and see your king.” 

I descended the stairs like a squib. Both father and 
son were even more brisk than usual, and it seemed to 
me that they never resembled each other so strongly 
as this morning. The father wore on his jacket the 
medal for valor between two commemorative medals, 
and his mustaches were curled and as pointed as two 
pins. 

We immediately set out for the railway station, 
where the king was to arrive at half-past ten. 

“You know,” said he, I have not seen him since the 
war of sixty-six, a trifle of fifteen years and six 
months. First, three years in France, then at Mon- 
dori, and then here, where I could have seen him, but 
I have never had the good luck to be in the city, when 
he came, because of such a combination of circum- 
stances. ’ ’ 

He referred to the king as “Humbert,” like a com- 
rade. Humbert commanded the sixteenth division; 
Humbert was twenty-two years and so many days old; 
Humbert mounted a horse in this way. Coretti spoke 
of the king. 

“Fifteen years!” he said loudly, quickening his pace. 
I really am very anxious to see him again. I left him 
a prince ; I see him again as a king. And I also have 
changed. Then a soldier, now a wood-hawker.” 
Tears came to his eyes, but still he laughed. 

His son then said, “Were he to see you, would he 
remember you?” 

He burst out laughing. 

“Are you crazy?” he answered. “That is a differ- 
ent thing. Humbert was but a single man ; we were 
as numerous as flies. And then, he never looked at us 
one by one. ” 







“O FERRUCCIO! MY POOR LITTLE GRANDSON!” SHE REPLIED, 
PLACING HER HANDS ON HIS HEAD 






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APRIL 


213 


We turned into the Corso Victor Emanuel; many 
people were on their way to the station. A company 
of Alpine soldiers passed with their trumpets. Two 
policemen also passed by on horseback at a gallop. It 
was a bright and serene day. 

“Yes!” exclaimed the elder Coretti, getting ani- 
mated, “it is such a pleasure to me to see him once 
more, the general of my division. Ah, how soon I 
have grown old ! It seems only the other day that I 
carried my knapsack on my shoulders and my gun in 
my hands, in the midst of that tumult on the morning 
of the 24th of June, when we were about to commence 
the battle. Humbert was going back and forth with 
his officers, while the cannon thundered in the dis- 
tance; and all looked at him and said, ‘We trust there 
will not be a bullet for him also!’ I was a thousand 
miles from thinking that I should soon find myself so 
near him and in front of the Austrian lines ; but really 
at only four paces from each other, boys. It was a 
glorious day, with a sky that resembled a mirror ; but 
so hot! Let us see if we can get in.” 

We had arrived at the station, where a great crowd 
had gathered, — carriages, guards, carbineers, societies 
with flags. A regimental band was playing. The 
elder Coretti attempted to get under the portico, but 
was not allowed to do so. Then he thought of forcing 
his way to the front row of the crowd which formed an 
opening at the entrance; and pushing along with his 
elbow, he succeeded in getting us through also. But 
the wavering throng flung us a little hither and a little 
thither. The wood-seller had his eye upon the first 
pillar of the portico, where the police could not permit 
any one to stand. 

“Come with me,” he said suddenly, pulling us by 


214 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


the hands; and he crossed the empty space in two 
bounds and planted himself there, with his back 
against the wall. 

A police brigadier instantly hurried up and said to 
him, “You can’t stand here.’’ 

“I belong to the fourth battalion of forty-nine,’’ 
replied Coretti, touching his medal. 

Glancing at it, the brigadier said, “Remain.” 

“Didn’t I tell you 
so!” exclaimed Co- 
retti, triumphantly ; 
“it’s a magic word, 
that fourth of the 
forty-ninth! Haven’t 
I the right to see my 
general with some 
little comfort — I, 
who belonged to that 
squadron ? I saw him 
close at hand then, 
and it is just that I 
should see him close 
at hand now. And 
I say ‘general’ ! He 
was my battalion 
commander for a good half hour; for at such times 
he commanded the battalion himself, while in the 
midst of it and not Major Ubrich, by Jove!” 

Meanwhile, in the reception room and outside, a 
great mixture of gentlemen and officers were seen, and 
before the door, the carriages, with the lackeys 
dressed in red, were drawn up in a line. 

Coretti asked his father whether Prince Humbert had 
his sword in his hand when he was with the regiment. 



APRIL 


215 


“He certainly did have his sword in his hand,” the 
latter replied, “to ward off a blow from a lance, which 
might strike him as well as another. Ah! those 
unchained demons ! They descended upon us like the 
wrath of God ; they came on us. They swept through 
the groups, the squadrons, the cannon, as though 
hurled by a hurricane, knocking down everything. It 
was a whirl of light cavalry of Alexandria, of lancers 
of Toggia, of infantry, of sharpshooters — an infernal 
confusion in which nothing more could be understood. 
I heard the shout, ‘Your Highness! your Highness!’ 
and saw the lowered lances approaching; we dis- 
charged our guns; a cloud of smoke hid everything. 
Then the smoke cleared away. The ground was scat- 
tered with horses and ulans wounded and dead. 
Turning around, I beheld in our midst Humbert on 
horseback, gazing tranquilly about, as though he 
would like to have said, ‘Have any of my lads received 
a scratch?’ And we shouted, ‘Hurrah!’ right in his 
face, like madmen. Great Heavens, what a moment 
that was! — Here’s the train arriving!’’ 

The band started to play; the officers hastened for- 
ward ; the crowd stood on tiptoe. 

“Eh, he won’t come out in a hurry,’’ said a police- 
man; “they are presenting him with an address now.’’ 

The elder Coretti had become very impatient 

“Ah! whenever I think of it,’’ he said, “I always 
see him there. There is cholera and there are earth- 
quakes, and I know not what else ; in all of which he 
bears himself bravely; but I always remember him as 
I saw him then, among us, with that tranquil face. I 
am certain that he too remembers the fourth of the 
forty-ninth, even now that he is king; and that it 
would please him a great deal to have for once, sur- 


2i6 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


rounding a table, all those whom he saw about him at 
that time. Now, he has generals, great gentlemen, 
and courtiers ; then, he had none other than us poor 
soldiers. If we could only exchange a few words 
alone! Our general of twenty-two; our prince, who 
was intrusted to our bayonets ! 

“Fifteen years since I saw him! In short, our Hum- 
bert! Ah! that music stirs my blood, upon my 
honor!” 

He was interrupted by an outburst of shouts ; thou- 
sands of hats rose in the air; four gentlemen dressed 
in black got into the first carriage. 

“ 'Tis he!” cried Coretti, and stood transfixed. 

Then he said in a low voice, “Holy Virgin, how 
gray he has grown!” 

We all three took off our hats as the carriage 
advanced slowly through the crowd, who were shout- 
ing and waving their hats. I looked at Coretti’s 
father. He did not seem to be the same man, for he 
looked to me taller, graver, rather pale, and stood 
bolt upright against the pillar. 

The carriage arrived before us, a pace away from 
the pillar. “Hurrah!” shouted many voices. “Hur- 
rah!” shouted Coretti, after the others. 

The king glanced at his face, and his eye rested for 
a moment on the three medals. Then Coretti, losing 
his head, roared, “The fourth battalion of the forty- 
ninth!” 

The king, who had turned away, looked our way 
again, and looking Coretti straight in the eye, put his 
hand out of the carriage. 

Coretti bounded forward and grasped it. The car- 
riage passed on ; the crowd broke in and separated us, 
and we lost sight of the elder Coretti. But only for a 


APRIL 


217 


moment, for we soon found him again, breathless, with 
wet eyes, calling for his son by name, and holding his 
had up in the air. His son ran towards him, and he 
said, “Here, child, while my hand is still warm!” and 
he passed his hand oyer the boy’s face, saying, “This 
is a caress from the king.” 

And he stood there as though in a dream, his eyes 
fixed on the distant carriage, smiling, holding his pipe 
in his hand, among a group of inquisitive people, who 
were gazing at him. “He belonged to the fourth 
battalion of the forty-ninth!” they said. “He is a sol- 
dier that knows the king.” “And the king remem- 
bered him.” “And he offered him his hand.” “He 
gave the king a petition,” said one, more loudly. 
“No,” replied Coretti, turning quickly around, “I did 
not give him any petition. But I would give him 
something else, should he ask it of me.” 

Every one stared at him, and he said simply, “My 
blood.” 

THE INFANT ASYLUM 

Tuesday, the 4th. 

My mother took me, as she had promised yesterday 
after breakfast, to the Infant Asylum in the Corso Val- 
docco, so as to recommend to the directress a little sis- 
ter of Precossi. I had never before seen an asylum. 
How that visit amused me ! They numbered two hun- 
dred baby boys and baby girls, and so tiny that the 
children in our lower primary schools are men com- 
pared to them. 

We arrived just as they were entering the refectory 
in files, where there were two very long tables which 
contained a great many round holes, and in each hole 
was a black bowl filled with rice and beans, and a tin 


2i8 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


spoon beside each bowl. After entering, some grew 
confused and sat on the floor until the teacher ran and 
picked them up. Many stopped before a bowl, think- 
ing that that was their own place, and had already 
swallowed a spoonful, when a teacher arrived and 
said, “Go ahead,” and they walked on three or four 
paces, and got down another spoonful, and then 
advanced again until they came to their proper places 
after having cheatingly partaken of half a portion of 
soup. Finally, by pushing and crying, “Hurry! 
Hurry!” all were got into order, and the prayer 
commenced. But all those on the inner line who had 
their backs turned from the bowls for the prayer, 
turned their heads round in order to keep an eye on 
them lest some one might meddle; and they prayed 
thus, with clasped hands and their eyes fixed on the 
ceiling, but with their hearts on their food. Then 
they began to eat. Ah, what a fine sight it was! 
One ate with two spoons, another with his hands; 
many picked up the beans one by one, and put them 
into their pockets; others wrapped them tightly in 
their little aprons, and pounded them to reduce them 
to a paste. Some would not eat, because they watched 
the flies flying around, and others coughed and threw 
a shower of rice all around them. It looked like a 
poultry yard. But it was beautiful to behold. The 
two rows of babies were a lovely sight, with their hair 
all tied on the heads with red, green and blue ribbons. 

A teacher asked a row of eight children, “Where 
does rice grow?” The whole eight opened wide their 
mouths, filled as they were with the broth, and 
replied all together in a sing-song, “It grows in the 
water.” Then the teacher said, “Hold up your 
hands!” and it was pretty to see all those little arms 


APRIL 


219 


fly up, which a few months before were all in swad- 
dling clothes, and all those little hands waving like a 
great many white and pink butterflies. 

Then they all went to play; but before going they 
took their little lunch baskets, which were hanging on 
the wall. They went out into the garden and scat- 
tered, and seating themselves on the grass took their 
lunches out of their baskets. The lunches consisted 
of bread, stewed plums, a tiny bit of cheese, a hard- 
boiled egg, little apples, a handful of boiled vetches, 
or the wing of a chicken. The entire garden was soon 
strewn with crumbs, as though they had been scat- 
tered from their feed by a flock of birds. They ate in 
the most comical ways — like rabbits, mice, cats, nib- 
bling, licking, sucking. There was a child who held a 
piece of rye bread hugged tightly to his breast, and 
was rubbing it with a medlar, as if he were polishing 
a sword. Several little ones crushed in their fists 
small cheeses, which trickled between their fingers like 
milk, and ran down inside their sleeves while they 
were wholly unaware of it. They ran and chased one 
another with apples and rolls in their mouths like 
dogs. 

I noticed three of them digging into a hard-boiled 
egg with a straw, thinking to find treasures, spilled 
half of it on the ground, and then picked up the tiny 
pieces of egg shells one by one very patiently, as if 
they were precious stones. And those who had any- 
thing very nice were surrounded by eight or ten, who 
stood looking into the baskets with bent heads, as 
though they were looking at the moon in a well. 

Twenty were gathered around a tiny fat child who 
had a little paper bag of sugar, and they were all 
caressing him for the permission to dip their bread in 


220 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


it, and he gave it to some, while to others, after many 
prayers, he only granted his finger to suck. 

Meanwhile, my mother had appeared into the gar- 
den, and was caressing each one in turn. Several 
hung about her, and even on her back, asking for a 
kiss, with faces upturned as though looking up to a 
third story, and with mouths that opened and shut as 
though asking for food. One offered her the bitten 
quarter of an orange, another a small crust of bread ; 
a little girl gave her a leaf; another very seriously 
showed her the tip of her forefinger, a close examina- 
tion of which revealed a microscopic swelling, which 
had been caused by touching the flame of a candle the 
day before. They displayed to her as great marvels 
the tiniest insects, which I cannot understand their 
being able • to see and catch, the halves of corks, shirt 
buttons and flowers snatched from the vases. One 
child, with a bandaged head, who was bound to be 
heard at any cost, stammered out to her some story 
about a head-over-heels tumble, not one word of which 
was understood; another insisted that my mother 
should bend down, and then whispered in her ear, 

“My father 
makes brushes.” 

During this 
time a thousand 
accidents were 
happening here 
and there which 
caused the teach- 
ers to hasten up. 
Children wept 
because they 
were unable to 



APRIL 


221 


untie a knot in their handkerchiefs ; others quarreled, 
with scratches and screams, over the halves of an 
apple; a child, who had fallen face downward over a 
little bench which lay overturned, wept loudly and 
could not get to his feet again unaided. 

Before leaving, my mother lifted three or four of 
them in her arms, and others ran up from all sides to 
be taken also, their faces smeared with the yolk of 
eggs and orange juice; one caught her hands; another 
her finger, to look at herring; another pulled at her 
watch chain and still another tried to seize her by the*^ 
hair. 

“Be careful,” the teacher said to her; “they will 
soil your dress. ’ ’ 

But my mother, who did not care whether they did 
spoil her dress, continued to kiss them, and they 
pressed closer and closer to her; those nearest had 
their arms extended as though they were about to 
climb, and the more distant ones tried to break through 
the crowd, and all were shouting: 

“Good-bye! good-bye! good-bye!” 

She finally succeeded in escaping from the garden. 
And they all ran and thrust their faces through the 
railings to see her pass, and put out their arms to wave 
at her, offering her 'once more bits of bread, bites of 
apple, cheese-rinds, and all screaming together, “Good- 
bye! good-bye! good-bye! Come again to-morrow! 
Come again! 

Before going my mother passed her hand once more 
over those hundreds of tiny outstretched hands over a 
wreath of natural roses, and at last arrived safely in 
the street, covered with crumbs and spots rumpled and 
dishevelled, with one hand holding fiowers and her 
eyes swelled with tears, and happy as though she had 


222 


A BOY’S LIFE A-T SCHOOL 


come from a festival, and inside there was still heard 
a sound like the twittering of birds, saying: 

Good-bye! good-bye! Come again, lady!” 


GYMNASTICS 

Tuesday, the 5th. 

The weather continuing to be fine, they have passed 
us from indoor gymnastics to gymnastics with appar- 
atus in the garden. 

Garrone was in the principal’s office yesterday when 
Nelli’s mother, that blond woman dressed in black, 
came to get her son excused from the new exercises. 
Each word was an effort for her, and while speaking 
she held her hand on her son’s head. 

“He is unable to do it,” she explained to the prin- 
cipal. 

But Nelli was filled with sorrow at this exclusion 
from the apparatus, at having also this humiliation 
imposed upon him. 

‘‘You will ^ see, mamma,” he said, ‘‘that I shall do 
like the rest. ” 

His mother looked silently at him with an air of 
^pity and love. Then she hesitatingly said: ‘‘I am 

afraid that his companions ” She meant to say 

that they would make fun of him. But Nelli replied: 

‘‘They will not do anything to me — and then, there 
is Garrone. His presence will prevent them from 
laughing.” 

And then he was permitted to come. The teacher, 
who had been with Garibaldi and had a wound on his 
neck, immediately conducted us to the vertical bars, 
which are very high, and we had to climb to the very 
top, and stand upright on the oblique plank. Derossi 


' APRIL 


223 


and Coretti went up like monkeys ; even little Precossi 
mounted quickly, in spite of the fact that his jacket, 
which reaches to his knees, is in the way, and so as to 
make him laugh while he was climbing, all the boys 
repeated to him his usual expression, “Excuse me! 
excuse me !“ Stardi puffed, turned as red as a turkey- 
cock, and clenched his teeth until he looked like a mad 
dog; but he would reach the top, even if he had to 
burst while doing so, and he actually did get there ; and 
so did Nobis, and when he reached the summit assumed 
the attitude of an emperor; but Votini slipped down 
twice, notwithstanding his fine new suit with azure 
stripes, which he had got expressly for gymnastics. 

So as to climb more easily, all the boys had smeared 
their hands with resin, which they call colophony, and 
it is of course that trader of a Garoffi who provides 
every one with it, selling it in powder form at a penny 
for a paper hornful and earning quite a few pennies. 

Then came Garrone’s turn, and up he went, chew- 
ing away at his bread as though it were nothing 
unusual, and I am sure that he could have carried one 
of us upon his shoulders, for he is as muscular and 
strong as a young bull. 

After Garrone came Nelli. The boys had no sooner 
seen him grasp the bars with his long thin hands than 
most of them commenced to giggle and sing; but 
when Garrone folded his big arms across his chest and 
darted round a glance which meant that he did not 
mind dealing out half a dozen punches, even before 
the teacher's eyes, they quickly stopped their foolish- 
ness. Nelli began to climb, trying so hard, poor 
little fellow; his face grew purple, he breathed with 
difficulty, and the perspiration ran from his brow. 
The teacher said, “Come down." But no, he tried 


224 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


and persisted. I feared at any moment to see him fall 
headlong, half dead. Poor Nelli! I thought, what if 
I had been in his place and my mother had seen me ! 
My poor mother, how she would have suffered ! And 
as I thought of that I felt so ten- 
derly towards Nelli that I would 
have given anything to See him suc- 
ceed in climbing those bars, with a 
little push from me, unseen. 

In the meantime, Garrone, De- 
rossi, and Coretti were saying: “Up, 
Nelli!” He gathered his strength 
and made one more effort, uttering 
a groan as he did so, and found 
himself within two feet of the plank. 

“Bravo!” shouted the others. 
“Courage — one more lift!” and 
there was Nelli clinging to the plank. 
All clapped their hands. 

“Bravo!” said the teacher. “But 
that is all now. Come down.” 

But Nelli, wishing to get to the 
top like the rest, succeeded after 
some exertion in getting his elbows 
on the plank, then his knees, then 
his feet; finally he stood upright, 
breathless and smiling, and stared 
at us. 

We clapped again, and then he 
gazed into the street. Turning in 
that direction, I beheld, coming through, the plants 
which cover the iron railing of the garden, his 
mother, passing along the sidewalk without daring 
to lift her eyes. When Nelli descended we all made 



APRIL 


22 $ 

much of him. He was excited and rosy, his eyes 
sparkled, and he seemed like a different boy. 

At the close of school, when his mother came for 
him, she embraced him and inquired anxiously, “Well, 
my poor son, how did it go? how did it go?” all his 
comrades replied, all together, “He did well — he 
climbed like the rest of us — he’s strong, you know — 
and quick — he does exactly like the others.” 

And then the joy of that woman was fine to behold. 
She endeavored to thank us, but failed; she shook 
hands with three or four, gave Garrone a caress, and 
took away her son. We watched them for a while, 
walking rapidly, talking and gesticulating, both per- 
fectly happy, as though no one were looking at them. 

MY FATHER’S TEACHER 

Tuesday, the nth. 

What a fine excursion I took yesterday with my 
father ! This is how it came about : 

The day before yesterday while at dinner, my father 
was reading the newspaper when he suddenly uttered 
an exclamation of astonishment. Then he said : 

“And I thought him dead twenty years ago! Do 
you know that my old first-grade teacher, Vincenzo 
Crosetti, is eighty-four years old and is still living? 
Here I see that the minister has bestowed upon him 
the medal of merit for sixty years of teaching. Sixty 
years, you understand! And he stopped teaching 
only two years ago. Poor Crosetti! He lives an 
hour’s journey from here by rail, in the same country 
town, Condora, where our old gardener’s wife, of the 
Villa Chieri, lives. ” Then he added, “Enrico, we will 
go and see him.” 


226 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


That entire evening he talked of nothing else but 
him. The name of his primary teacher brought back 
to his memory a thousand things which had occurred 
when he was a boy — his early companions, his dead 
mother. “Crosetti, ” he explained, “was forty when I 
was with him. I can see him now. A small man, 
slightly bent even then, with bright eyes, and a beard- 
less face. Although severe, he was always good- 
natured, and loved us like a father, forgiving us more 
than one offence. From a country lad he had risen 
into the world by hard study and privations. He was 
so gentlemanly. My mother liked him very much, 
and my father treated him like a friend. Why has he 
gone for his remaining days to live at Condora, near 
Turin? 

“He surely will not recognize me. Never mind, I 
shall recognize him. Forty-four years have gone by — 
forty-four years, Enrico! and to-morrow we will see 
him.’’ 

Yesterday morning, at nine o’clock, we were at the 
Lusa railway station. I wanted Garrone to come with 
us; but he could not, because his mother was ill. 

It was a beautiful spring day. The train ran 
through green fields and blossoming hedges, and the 
air we breathed was perfumed. My father was in a 
happy mood, and every little while he would put his 
arm around my neck and speak to me like a friend, as 
he looked out over the country. 

“Poor Crosetti!’ he said; “after my father, he was 
the first man to love me and do me good. I have 
never forgotten his good advices, and also several 
sharp reproofs which would make me return home 
with a lump in my throat. He had large and stubby 
hands. I see him before me now, as he used to enter 


APRIL 


227 


the schoolroom, place his cane in a corner and hang 
his coat on the peg, always with the same gesture, and 
every day he was in the same humor, always consci- 
entious, full of good-will and attentive, as though each 
day he were teaching school for the first time. I 
remember him as well as though I heard him now, 
when he called to me: ‘Bottini! eh, Bottini! The 
fore and middle fingers on that pen!’ How he must 
have changed in these forty-four years!” 

Upon reaching Condora, we went in search of our 
old gardener’s wife of Chieri, who keeps a stand in an 
alley. We found her together with her sons; she wel- 
comed us warmly and gave us tidings of her husband, 
who will soon return from Greece, where he has been 
working for three years ; and of her eldest daughter, 
who is in the deaf-mute institute in Turin. Then she 
pointed out to us the path which led to the teacher’s 
house — for every one knows him. 

Leaving Chieri, we turned into a steep lane flanked 
by hedges in bloom. My father no longer spoke, but 
seemed wholly absorbed in his thoughts, and every 
little while he smiled, shaking his head. 

Stopping suddenly, he said: ‘‘Here he is! I will 
wager that it is he. ’ ’ 

Coming towards us down the lane, a little old man 
with a white beard and a large hat was descending 
leaning on a cane. He dragged his feet along and his 
hands trembled. 

‘‘It is he!” repeated my father, quickening his steps. 

When we were close to him, we stopped. The old 
man stopped also and looked at my father. His face 
was still ruddy and his eyes were bright and vivacious. 

‘‘Are you,” asked my father, raising his hat, ‘‘Vin- 
cenzo Crosetti, the school teacher?” 


228 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


The old man, also raising his hat, replied, “I am,” 
in a somewhat trembling but full voice. 

“Well, then,” my father said, taking one of his 
hands, “permit one of your old scholars to shake your 
hand and to inquire how you are. I have come from 
Turin to see you. ” 

The old man gazed at him in astonishment and said: 
“You do me too much honor. I do not remember. 
When were you my pupil? Excuse me, what is your 
name, if you please?” 

My father gave his name, Alberto Bottini, the year 
in which he had attended school and where ; then he 
added: “It is natural that you should not remember 
me. But I remember you so well!” 

The teacher bent his head and stared thoughtfully 
at the ground, repeating my father’s name three or 
four times ; in the meantime my father looked intently 
at him with smiling eyes. 

Suddenly the old man looked up with his eyes 
opened widely and said, slowly : “Alberto Bottini? the 
son of Bottini, the engineer? he who lived in the Piazo 
della Consolata?” 

“The same,” replied my father, extending his 
hands, 

“Then,” said the old man, “allow me, my dear sir, 
allow me;” and advancing, he embraced my father; 
his white head hardly reached the latter’s shoulder. 
My father pressed his cheek to the other’s brow. 

“Have the kindness to come with me,” said the 
teacher. He turned about and silently led the way to 
his abode. 

Presently we arrived at a garden plot before a tiny 
house with two doors, around one of which there was 
a fragment of whitewashed wall. Opening the second 



HE APPROACHED THE DESK AND OPENED THE DRAWER 




APRIL 


229 


door, the teacher ushered us into a room containing 
four white walls, a cot bed with a blue and white 
checked coverlet in one corner, a small table and a 
little bookcase in another, four chairs, and an ancient 
geographical map nailed to the wall, and a pleasant 
odor of apples filled the air. 

We all three seated ourselves. My father and his 
teacher remained silent for a while. 

“Bottini!” at length the teacher said, looking 
intently on the sunlight which formed a checker-board 
on the brick floor. “For some time during your first 
year you sat on a bench to the left near the window. 
Let me see if I can recall it. I can still see your curly 
head.” After thinking for a while longer he said, 
“You were a bright lad, eh? Very. The second year 
you had an attack of croup. I remember when they 
brought you back to school, emaciated and wrapped 
up in a shawl. Forty years have passed since then, 
have they not? It is very kind of you to remember 
your poor teacher. And several others of my old 
pupils have come here in years gone by to see me and 
several gentlemen.” He asked my father what his 
business was. Then he said, “I am glad, heartily 
glad. I thank you. It is a long time since I have 
seen any one. I am afraid that you will be -the last, 
my dear sir. ’ ’ 

“Don’t say that,” exclaimed my father. “You are 
well and still vigorous. You must not say that.” 

“Eh, no!” replied the teacher. “Do you notice this 
trembling?” showing us his hands. “It is a bad sign. 
It came on me three years ago, while I was still teach- 
ing school. I paid no attention to it at first, believing 
it would pass off, but instead, it stayed and kept on 
increasing. Finally the day came when I could no 


230 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


longer write. Ah! that day, when I, for the first 
time, made a blot on the copy-book of one of my 
pupils, was a stab in the heart for me, my dear sir. 
I kept on for a while longer ; but my strength soon 
gave out. After having taught for forty-six years, I 
was forced to bid farewell to my school, to my schol- 
ars, to work. And it was so hard, you understand, so 
hard. All the scholars accompanied me home the last 
time I gave a lesson, and made much of me ; but I 
was sad, for I understood that my life was ended. 
The year before I had lost my wife and only son. 
Only two peasant grandchildren were left me. At 
present I am living on a pension of nineteen dollars 
and thirty cents due me quarterly. I no longer do any- 
thing, and it seems to me as though the days would 
never end. You see, my sole occupation is to look 
over my old schoolbooks, my scholastic papers and 
several books that have been given to me. There 
they are,” he said, indicating his little library; “there 
are my remembrances, my whole past; I have nothing 
more in the world.” 

Then in a tone that suddenly became joyous, “I will 
give you a surprise, my dear Signor Bottini.” 

Arising, he approached his desk and opened a long 
drawer which contained numerous little parcels all 
tied up with a string, and on each was written a date 
in four figures. After searching a while he opened 
one, turned over several papers, drew forth a sheet 
which had turned yellow, and handed it to my father. 
It was some of his -school work of forty years be- 
fore. 

At the top was written, “Alberto Bottini, Dictation, 
April 3, 1838.” My father immediately recognized his 
own large schoolboy hand, and began reading it with 


APRIL 


231 

a smile. Suddenly his eyes grew moist. I arose and 
asked him what the matter was. 

Throwing his arm around my waist and pressing me 
to his side, he said: “Look at this sheet of paper. 
Do you see? These are my poor mother’s corrections. 
She always went over my I’s and my t’s. And the 
last lines are entirely hers. She had learned to imi- 
tate my handwriting, and when I was tired and sleepy 
she finished my work for me. My blessed mother!’’ 
And he kissed the page. 

“See here,’’ said the teacher, showing him the other 
packages; “these are my remembrances. Each year 
I laid away a piece of work of each of my scholars ; 
and they are all here, arranged in order and num- 
bered. Whenever I open them as I have done now, 
and read a line here and there, a thousand things come 
to my mind, and I seem to be living again in the days 
gone by. How many of them have passed, my dear 
sir! I close my eyes, and see behind me face after 
face, class after class, hundreds and hundreds of boys, 
and who knows how many of them are already dead ! 
I remember many of them well, and distinctly recall 
the best and the worst : those who pleased me the most 
and those for whom I have passed many sorrowful 
moments, for I have had serpents too, among that 
great number ! 

“But now, you understand, it is as though I were 
already in the other world,, and I love them all 
equally.” 

He sat down again and took one of my hands in his. 

“And tell me,” my father said, smiling, “do you 
not recollect any mischievous tricks?” 

“Of yours, sir?” replied the old man, also smiling. 
“No; not just at present. Still, that does not in the 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


232 

least mean that you never played any. But you had 
good judgment, and were serious for your age. I 
remember the great affection your mother had for you. 
But it is very good and kind of you to come to seek me 
out. How could you leave your work, to come and 
see a poor old schoolteacher?” 

“Listen, Mr. Grosetti,” my father answered, 
eagerly. “I remember the first time that my poor 
mother accompanied me to school. It was to be her 
first parting from me for two hours; of letting me out 
of the house alone, in other hhnds than my father’s; 
in short, in the hands of a stranger. To that kind 
creature my entrance into school was like my entrance 
into the world, the first of a long series of necessary 
and painful separations; it was society which was tak- 
ing her son from her for the first time, never again to 
return him to her intact. She was filled with sorrow 
and so was I. With a trembling voice I bade her 
farewell, and then, as she went away, I saluted her 
again through the glass in the door, with my eyes full 
of tears. At that moment you made a motion with 
your hand, laying the other on your breast as though 
to say, ‘Trust me, signora.’ 

“Well, the motion, the look, from which I perceived 
that you had understood all the sentiments, all the 
thoughts of my mother ; that look which meant to say, 
‘Courage!’ — that look which was a faithful promise of 
protection, of affection, of indulgence, I have never 
forgotten; it has remained forever engraved on my 
heart, and it is that memory which persuaded me to 
set out from Turin. And I have come after forty-four 
years, purposely to say to you, ‘Thanks, dear 
teacher.’ ” 

The teacher did not reply ; he caressed my hair with 


APRIL 


233 


his trembling hand, which he passed smoothly from 
my hair to my forehead, from my forehead to my 
shoulder. 

In the meantime, my father was looking attentively 
at those bare walls, that miserable bed, the morsel of 
bread, and the little phial of oil which lay on the win- 
dow-sill, and he seemed desirous of saying, “Poor 
teacher ! after sixty years of teaching, is this all your 
reward?” 

But the good old man was content, and commenced 
speaking again, with vivacity, of our family, of the 
other teachers of that time, and of my father’s school- 
mates, of whom some he remembered and others he 
did not; and each told the other news of this one or of 
that one. When my father interrupted the conversa- 
tion, to ask the old teacher to accompany us into town 
and lunch with us, he replied gratefully, “I thank 
you, I thank you,” but appeared undecided. Taking 
both the old man’s hands in his, my father again 
besought him to go with us. 

“But how shall I manage to eat,” said the teacher, 
“with these poor trembling hands of mine? It is a 
sacrifice even for others.” 

“We will aid you, teacher,” said my father. 

He finally accepted, as he shook his head and smiled. 

“This is a lovely day,” he said, closing the outer 
door, “a lovely day, dear Mr. Bottini! You may be 
sure that I will remember it as long as I live.” 

My father gave his arm to the teacher, who took me 
by the hand, and we descended the lane. On our way 
we met two little barefooted girls leading some cows, 
and a boy who passed us running with a big load of 
straw on his shoulders. The teacher explained that 
they were second grade pupils, and that every morn- 


i 


234 A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 

ing they led the cattle to pasture, and worked bare- 
footed in the fields ; and in the afternoon they put on 
their shoes and went to school. It was now nearly 
noontime. We encountered no one else. We reached 
the inn in a few minutes, and seated ourselves at a 
large table, with the teacher between us, and began 
our lunch at once. The inn was as quiet as a convent. 
The teacher was very happy, and his emotion increased 
the trembling and he could hardly eat. But my father 
cut up his meat, broke his bread, and put salt on his 
plate. In order to drink he was obliged to hold the 
glass with both hands, and even then he struck his 
teeth. Yet he talked constantly and vigorously of the 
reading-books of his young days ; of the school hours 
of that time ; of the praises bestowed on him by his 
superiors; of the regulations of late years; and all 
with that serene, countenance, somewhat redder than 
at first, and with that merry voice of his, and that 
laugh which was almost the laugh of a young man. 
And my father gazed and gazed at him, with that same 
expression with which I sometimes catch him looking 
at me, at home, when he thinks and smiles to himself, 
with his face turned aside. 

Some wine drops trickled down on the teacher’s 
breast; my father arose and wiped it off with his nap- 
kin. “No, sir; I cannot permit this,’’ the old man 
said, smiling. He pronounced some words in Latin, 
and then finally raising his glass, which wavered 
about in his hand, he said very seriously: “To your 
health, my dear engineer, to that of your children, to 
the memory of your good mother!’’ 

“To yours, my good teacher!’’ replied my father, 
pressing his hand. At the end of the room stood the 
innkeeper and several others, watching us, and smil- 


APRIL 


235 


ing as though pleased at this attention which was 
being shown to the teacher on their parts. 

Shortly after two o’clock we came out, and the 
teacher expressed his wish to escort us to the station. 
My father again gave his arm to the old man, who 
took hold of my hand again, I carrying his cane for 
him. The people paused to look on, for they all were 
acquainted with him and several greeted him. At one 
place on our way we heard, through an open window, 
several boys’ voices, reading together and spelling. 
The old man stopped and seemed saddened by it. 

“This, my dear Mr. Bottini,” he said, “is what pains 
me. To hear the voices of boys in school and not be 
there any more ; to think that another man is there. 
For sixty years I heard that music and became very 
fond of it. Now I have no family. I have no sons.’’ 

“No, teacher,’’ my father said to him, starting on 
again: “you still have, scattered about the world, 
many sons who remember you, as I have always 
done. ’ ’ 

“No, no,’’ answered the teacher, with Sadness; “I 
no longer have a school, no longer any sons ; and with- 
out sons I cannot live much longer. My hour will 
soon strike. ’ ’ 

“Do not say that, teacher; do not think so,’’ said 
my father. “You have done so much good in every 
way! You have employed your life so nobly!’’ 

The old teacher leaned his white head for a moment 
on my father’s shoulder, and pressed my hand. 

We entered the station. The train was about to 
start. 

“Farewell, teacher!’’ said my father, kissing him on 
both cheeks. 

“Farewell! Thanks! Farewell!’’ replied the 


236 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


teacher, taking one of my father’s hands in his two 
trembling hands, and pressing it to his heart. 

Then I also kissed him, and felt that his face was 
bathed in tears. My father pushed me into the rail- 
way coach, and when the train was beginning to start 
he quickly removed the common-looking cane from the 
aged teacher’s hand and put in its place his own hand- 
some one, with a silver handle and his initials, saying, 
“Keep it as a memento of me.’’ 

The old man wished to return it and get his own 
back, but my father had already stepped inside and 
closed the door. 

“Good-bye, my kind teacher!’’ 

“Farewell, my son!’’ replied the teacher, as the train 
moved off, “and may God bless you for the comfort 
which you have given to a poor old man!” 

“Until we meet again!” cried my father, in a moved 
voice. 

But the teacher shook his head, as much as to say, 
“We shall never again see each other.” 

“Yes, yes,” repeated my father, “until we meet 
again ! ’ ’ 

And the other replied by raising his trembling hand 
to heaven, “Up there!” And thus he disappeared 
from our sight, with his hand on high. 


CONVALESCENCE 

Thnrsda)^ the 20th. 

Who could have told me when I returned so 
delighted from that pleasant excursion with my father, 
that for ten days I should see neither sky nor country? 
I have been very ill — in danger of my life. 

I have heard my mother’s sobs — I have noticed my 


APRIL 


237 


father’s extreme paleness and seen him looking anx- 
iously at me ; my sister Silvia and my brother talking 
in a low voice and the doctor, with his spectacles, who 
never left my side and who said things to me that I 
did not understand. Truly I have been at the point 
of saying a last farewell to every one. Ah, my poor 
mother! 

I passed at least three or four days of which I 
remember hardly nothing, as though I had been in a 
dark and troubled dream. 

Once I thought I saw at my bedside my kind school- 
teacher of the upper primary, who was trying to stifle 
her cough in her handkerchief so as not to disturb me. 

I recall also, thus confusedly, my teacher, who bent 
over to kiss me, tickling my face a little with, beard; 
and I saw pass by, as in a mist, the red head of Crossi, 
the golden curls of Derossi, the Calabrian clad in 
black, and lastly Garrone, who brought me a mandarin 
with its leaves, and hastened away because his mother 
is still ill. 

At last I awoke as from a very long dream, and 
knew that I was better from seeing my father and 
mother smiling and hearing Silvia singing softly. 
Oh, what a sorrowful dream it was ! Then I gradu- 
ally began to improve. The little mason came and 
made me laugh once more for the first time, with his 
hare’s face; and how well he does it, now that his face 
is somewhat elongated through illness, poor fellow! 
And Coretti came and also Garoffi, who came to pre- 
sent me with two tickets in his new lottery of “a pen- 
knife with five surprises,” which he bought of a 
second-hand dealer in the Via Bertola. Yesterday, 
while I was alseep, Precossi came and laid his cheek 
on my hand without waking me; and as he came 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


238 

directly from his father’s workshop, his face was 
smeared with coaldust, and he left a black mark on 
my sleeve, the sight of which pleased me very much 
when I awoke. 

How green the trees have become in these few days ! 
And how I envy the boys whom I see running to 
school, carrying their books, when my father helps me 
to the window! But I shall soon return there myself. 
I am so impatient to see all the boys once more, and 
my seat, the garden, the streets ; to find out all that 
has taken place during my illness ; to apply myself to 
my books again, and to my copy-books, which I seem 
not to have seen for a year! How pale and thin my 
poor mother has grown! Poor father! how tired he 
looks! Also my kind companions who came to see me 
and walked on tiptoe and kissed my brow ! It saddens 
me even now to think that we must one day part. 
Perhaps I shall continue my studies with Derossi and 
a few others ; but how about all the others? When the 
fourth grade is once finished, then good-bye ! we shall 
never see each other again: I shall never again see 
them at my bedside when I am ill, — Garrone, Precossi, 
Coretti, who are such fine boys and kind and dear com- 
rades, — never more! 


OUR FRIENDS THE WORKINGMEN 

Thursday, the 20th. 

Why “never more,’’ Enrico? That will depend on 
yourself. When you have finished the fourth grade, 
you will go to the Gymnasium, and they will become 
workingmen ; but you will remain in the same city for 
many years, perhaps. Why, then, will you never 
meet again? When you are in the University or the 


APRIL 


239 


Lyceum, you will look for them in their shops or their 
workrooms, and it will be a great pleasure for you to 
meet the companions of your youth once more, as men 
at work. 

I should like to see you neglecting to look up Coretti 
or Precossi, wherever they may be! You will go to 
them, and pass hours in their company, and you will 
see, when you come to study life and the world, how 
many things you can learn from them which no one 
else is capable of teaching you, both about their arts 
and their society and your own country. And be 
careful; for if you do not keep these friendships, it 
will be very hard for you to find other similar ones in 
the future, — friendships, I mean to say, outside of the 
class to which’ you belong ; and thus you will live in 
one class only; and the man who associates with but 
one social class is like the student who reads but one 
book. 

Let it be your firm purpose, then, from this day on, 
that you will keep these good friends even after you 
become separated, and from this time on cultivate 
exactly these friends by preference because they are 
the sons of workingmen. You see, men of the upper 
classes are the officers, and men of the lower classes 
are the soldiers of toil ; and this refers to society as 
well as in the army, for not only is the soldier no less 
noble than the officer, since nobility is made up in 
work and not in wages, in courage and not in degree; 
but if there is also a superiority of merit, it is on the 
side of the soldier, of the workmen, who draw the 
lesser profit from the work. Therefore love and 
honor above all others, among your comrades, the sons 
of the soldiers of labor, respect in them the toil and 
the sacrifices of their parents ; do not pay any atten- 


240 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


tion to the differences of fortune and of class, upon 
which only the low-bred regulate their sentiment and 
courtesy ; remember that from the veins of laborers in 
the shops and in the country was lost nearly all of that 
blessed blood which has redeemed your country ; love 
Garrone, love Coretti, love Precossi, love your little 
mason, who, in their little workingmen’s breasts, 
possess the hearts of princes; and take an oath to your- 
self that no change of fortune shall ever take away 
these childhood friendships from your soul. Swear to 
yourself that if forty years hence, while passing 
through a railway station, you should see your old 
Garrone in the garments of an engineer with a black 
face — Ah! I cannot think what to tell you to swear. I 
am positive that you will jump upon the engine and 
fling your arms around his neck, even though you 
were a senator of the kingdoni. Your Father. 


GARRONE’S MOTHER 

Saturday, the 29th. 

When I returned to school I instantly heard some 
sad news. Garrone had been absent for several days 
because his mother was seriously ill. 

She died Saturday evening. We had no sooner 
entered the room yesterday morning than the teacher 
said : 

“To Garrone has befallen the greatest misfortune 
that can happen to a boy: his mother is dead. He 
will return to school to-morrow. I implore you now, 
boys, respect the great sorrow that is now tearing his 
soul. When he comes in welcome him fondly and 
seriously; let no one jest, let no one laugh at him, a 
advise you. ’ ’ 


APRIL 


241 


Poor Garrone came in this morning- a trifle later than 
the rest; I felt a blow at my heart at the sight of him. 
His face was livid, his eyes were red, and he was 
unsteady on his feet; he appeared to have been ill for 
a month. He was hardly recognizable; his clothes 
were all black; he aroused our pity. No one even 
breathed ; all looked at him. 

He had no sooner entered than he burst out crying 
desperately at beholding once more that schoolroom 
where his mother had come to get him nearly every 
day, that bench over which she had bent on so many 
examination days to give him a last bit of advice, and 
where he had so many times thought of her, in his 
impatience to run out and meet her. 

The teacher drew him aside to his own place and 
pressing him close to his breast, said to him : 

“Weep, weep, my poor boy; but take courage. 
Your mother is no longer here; but she sees you, she 
still loves you, she still lives by your side, and the day. 
will come when you will behold her once more, for 
you have a good and upright soul like her own. But 
take courage!’' 

Having said this, he led him to the bench near me. 

I did not dare look at him. He pulled out his copy- 
books and his books, which had not been opened for 
many days, and upon opening the reading book at a 
page where there was an engraving representing a 
mother leading her son by the hand, he laid his head 
on his arm and burst out crying again. The teacher 
motioned us to leave him alone, and commenced the 
lesson. I wanted to say something to him, but did 
not know what. Then laying a hand on his arm, I 
whispered in his ear: 

“Don’t cry, Garrone.’’ 


242 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


“He did not reply, but without raising his head from 
the bench he laid his hand on mine and kept it there a 
while. At the dismissal of school, no one spoke to 
him; all the boys hovered round him silently and 
respectfully. I saw my mother waiting for me, and 
ran to embrace her; . but she pushed me aside and 
gazed at Garrone. For the moment I could not under- 
stand the reason ; but then, noticing that Garrone was 
standing apart by himself and gazing at me with a 
look of indescribable sadness, which seemed to say. 
“You are embracing your mother, and I shall never 
embrace mine again! You have still a mother, while 
mine is dead!’’ I understood why ,my mother had 
repulsed me, and I walked out without taking her 
hand. 


GUISEPPE MAZZINl 

Saturday, the 29th. 

Also this morning Garrone came to school with a 
pale face and his eyes swollen with weeping, and he 
hardly glanced at the little gifts which we had placed 
on his desk to cheer him a little. But the teacher had 
brought a page from a book to read to him in order to 
encourage him. First he informed us that to-morrow 
at one o’clock we are to go to the town hall to witness 
the award of the medal for civic valor to a boy^who 
saved a little child from the Po, and that on Monday he 
will give us a dictation on the description of the fes- 
tival instead of the monthly story. 

Then turning to Garrone, who was standing with 
drooping head, he said to him : 

“Garrone, make an effort and write down what I 
dictate.” 


APRIL 


243 


We all took our pens, and the teacher dictated. 

“Guiseppe Mazzini, who was born in Genoa in the 
year 1805, and died in Pisa in 1872, was a grand, 
patriotic soul, a writer of great genius and the first 
inspirer, and apostle of the Italian Revolution. Out 
of love for his country he lived for forty years poor, 
exiled, persecuted, a fugitive, heroically firm in his 
principles and in his resolutions. Guiseppe Mazzini 
worshiped his mother and inherited from her all the 
nobility and purity of her strong and gentle soul. 

“He once wrote as follows to a faithful friend of his, 
to comfort him in the greatest of misfortunes. These 
are almost his exact words : 

“ ‘My friend, you will never again behold your 
mother on this earth. That is the terrible truth. I 
do not attempt to see you because yours is one of those 
solemn and sacred sorrows which each individual must 
suffer and conquer for himself. Do you understand 
what I mean by these words, “Is it necessary to con- 
quer sorrow?” To conquer the least sacred, the least 
purifying part of sorrow, that which, instead of 
improving the soul weakens and debases it? But the 
other part of sorrow, the noble part — that which 
enlarges and elevates the soul — that must remain with 
you and never leave you again. Nothing here below 
can take the place of a good mother. In the griefs, in 
the comforts which life may still bring you you will 
never forget her. But you must remember her, love 
her, mourn her death, in a way worth)'' of her. Oh, 
my friend, listen to me! Death exists not; it is noth- 
ing. It cannot even be understood. Life is life, and 
it follows the law of life — progress. Yesterday you 
had a mother on earth ; to-day you have an angel else- 
where. All goodness will survive with greater power 


244 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


the life of earth. Hence your mother’s love also. 
She loves you now more than ever. And you are 
responsible to her for your actions even more than 
before. It depends upon you, upon your actions, to 
meet her once more, to see her in another world. 
Therefore you must, out of love and reverence for 
your mother, grow better and give her joy. Here- 
after you must say to yourself at every action of yours, 
“Would my mother approve of this?’’ Her transfor- 
mation has placed a guardian angel in the world for 
you, to whom you must refer in all your troubles. Be 
strong and brave ; desperate and vulgar grief ; have 
the tranquillity of great suffering in great souls ; and 
that it is what she would wish. ’ 

“Garrone,” added the teacher, “be strong and' tran- 
quil, for that is her wish. Do you understand?” 

Garrone nodded assent, while great and fast-flowing 
tears streamed over his hands, his copy-book and his 
desk. 


CIVIC VALOR 

(THE MONTHLY STORY) 

At one o’clock we were with our teacher before the 
town hall, to witness the bestowal of the medal for 
civic valor on the boy who saved one of his comrades 
from the Po. 

A large tri-colored flag waved on the front terrace. 
We entered the courtyard of the palace. A great 
crowd had already collected. At the extremity of the 
courtyard was seen a table with a red cloth over it and 
papers on it, and behind it a row of gilded chairs for 
the mayor and council; the municipal ushers were 


APRIL 


245 


tliere, with their sky-blue under-waistcoats and white 
stockings. On the right-hand side a detachment of 
policemen, who had a great many medals, was drawn 
up in line ; and beside them a troop of custom-house 
guards ; on the other side were the firemen in holiday 
array; and numerous soldiers not in line who had 
come to look on — cavalrymen, sharpshooters, artillery- 
men. Then all around were gathered wealthy men, 
peasants, some officers, women and boys. We 
crowded into a corner where many pupils from other 
buildings had already assembled with their teachers; 
next to us was a group of boys of ages varying from 
ten to eighteen years and belonging to poorer classes, 
talking and laughing loudly ; and we understood that 
they were all from Borgo Po, comrades or acquaint- 
ances of the boy to whom the medal was to be 
awarded. 

All the windows above were crowded with the city 
government employes, the balcony of the library was 
also thronged with people who pressed against the 
balustrade; and in a balcony on the opposite side, 
which is over the entrance gate, were a crowd of girls 
from the public schools and many daughters of mili- 
tary men, with their beautiful blue veils. It resem- 
bled a theater. 

All talked merrily, looking every now and then at 
the red table to see whether any one had come in. 
At the further end of the portico a band was playing 
very softly. The sun beat down on the high walls. 
It was lovely. 

Suddenly there was a general applause from the 
courtyard, the balconies and the windows. I raised 
myself on tiptoe to look. 

The crowd which stood behind the red table had 


246 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


parted and a man and woman had come forward. The 
former led a boy by the hand. 

This was the lad who had saved his comrade. 

The man was his father, a mason dressed in his holi- 
day clothes. The woman was his mother, small and 
blond, and was clothed in black. The boy, also small 
and blond, had on a gray jacket. 

At the sight of that great crowd of people, and at 
the sound of that thunder of applause, all three stood 
still, not daring either to look or move. An usher of 
the city government pushed them forward to the side 
of the table on the right. 

For a moment all were silent and then the applause 
again broke out in every direction. The boy glanced 
up at the windows, and then at the balcony where 
were the Daughters of Military Men ; he held his cap 
in his hand, and appeared as though he did not under- 
stand, where he was. I thought that he resembled 
Coretti in the face ; but he was redder. His father 
and mother were gazing fixedly on the table. 

Meanwhile, all the boys from Borgo Po who stood 
near us were motioning to their comrade to attract his 
attention, and calling him quietly, “Pin! Pin! Pinot!’’ 
They were at last heard. The boy glanced at them 
and hid his smile behind his cap. 

Then the guards put themselves in the attitude of 
attention. 

The mayor together with many gentlemen entered. 

The mayor, all white with a big tri-colored scarf, 
placed himself beside the table, standing. All the 
others took their places behind and beside him. 

The music ceased; the mayor made a sign, and all 
became quiet. 

He commenced to speak. I did not perfectly hear 


APRIL 


247 


the first words, but I understood that he was relating 
the deed of the boy. Then he raised his voice, and it 
rang out so clear and sonorous through the whole 
courtyard that I did not lose another word. Beholding 
from the shore his comrade struggling in the river, 
already overtaken with the fear of death, he tore off 
his clothes and hurried to his assistance, without hesi- 
tating an instant. They shouted to him, “You will be • 
drowned !“ — he paid no attention to them ; they caught 
hold of him — he freed himself; they called him by 
name — he was already in the water. The river was 
swollen; the risk terrible, even for a man. But he 
flung himself to meet death with all the strength of 
his little body and of his noble heart. Reaching the 
unfortunate lad, he seized him just in time, when he 
was already under water, and pulled him to the sur- 
face. He fought desperately with the waves, which 
strove to overwhelm him, with his companion who 
tried to cling him ; and several times he disappeared 
beneath the water, and rose again with a furious 
effort; obstinate, invincible in his purpose, not like a 
boy who was trying to save another boy, but like a 
man, like a father who is struggling to rescue his son, 
who is his hope and his life. In short, God did not 
permit such generous bravery to be displayed in vain. 
The child swimmer tore the victim from the gigantic 
river, and brought him to land, and with the help of 
others, rendered him his first succor; after which he 
returned home quietly and alone, and ingenuously 
narrated his deed. 

“Gentlemen, heroism in a man is beautiful and 
venerable. But in a child, in whom there can be no 
ambitious aim or no profit whatever ; in a child, who 
must have all the more ardor in proportion as he has 


248 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


less strength ; in a child, from whom we ask nothing, 
who is bound to nothing, who already appears to us so 
noble and amiable, not when he acts, but when he 
merely understands, and appreciates the sacrifices of 
others; — in a child, heroism is divine! I will con- 
clude, gentlemen. I do not wish to adorn with super- 
fluous phrases such simple grandeur. Here before 
you stands the noble and valorous rescuer. Soldiers, 
greet him as a brother; mothers, bless him as you 
would a son; children, remember his name, engrave 
on your minds his visage, that it may nevermore be 
canceled from your memories and from your hearts. 
Draw near, my boy. In the name of the king of Italy, 
I present you the medal for civic valor.” 

A very loud hurrah, uttered at the same moment by 
many voices, made the palace ring. 

Taking the medal from the table, the mayor fastened 
it on the boy’s breast. Then he embraced and kissed 
him. The mother covered her eyes with her hand 
while the father held his chin on his breast. 

The mayor shook hands with both ; and taking the 
decree of decoration, which was bound with a ribbon, 
he handed it to the woman. Turning to the boy 
again, he said: 

“May the memory of this day, which is such a 
glorious one for you, such a happy one for your father 
and mother, keep you forever in the path of virtue and 
honor! Farewell!” 

The mayor withdrew, the band struck up, and every- 
thing seemed to be at an end, when the detachment of 
firemen opened, and a lad of eight or nine years, 
pushed forwards by a woman who quickly concealed 
herself, ran towards the boy with the decoration, and 
threw himself into his arms. 



REACHING THE UNFORTUNATE LAD HE SEIZED HIM JUST IN TIME 
AND DREW HIM TO THE SURFACE 



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APRIL 


249 



Another outburst of hurrahs and applause resounded 
through the courtyard, and every one immediately 
understood that this was the boy who had been saved 
from the Po, and who had come to thank his rescuer. 
After kissing him, he 
clung to one arm, so as 
to accompany him out. 

Then, with the father 
and mother following 
behind, they made their 
way towards the door, 
passing with great diffi- 
culty among the people 
who formed in line to 
let them go through, 

— policemen, boys, sol- 
diers, women, all min- 
gled confusedly, all 
pushed forward eagerly, 
and raised on tiptoe to 
see the boy. In passing 
those standing near 
him each touched his 
hand. 

As he passed before 
the schoolboys, they all 
waved their caps in the 
air. A great uproar arose from the Borgo Po boys, 
and several pulled him by the arms and by his jacket 


and shouted: 

“Pin! Hurrah for Pin ! Bravo, Pinot!” 

He passed close by me. His face was flushed and 
happy; his medal had a red, white and green ribbon. 
His mother was crying and smiling, and his father was 


250 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


twirling his mustache with • his hand, which trembled 
violently, as though he had a fever. The people from 
the windows and the balconies still leaned out and 
applauded. Suddenly, when they were about to enter 
the portico, there descended from the balcony where 
were the Daughters of Military Men, a real -shower of 
pansies, of bunches of violets and daisies, which fell 
upon the head of the boy, and of his father and 
mother, and scattered over the ground. Many people 
picked them up and handed them to the mother. And 
at the further end of the courtyard the band played 
very, very softly a very beautiful air, which sounded 
like a song sung by many silvery voices fading slowly 
into the distance on the banks of a river. 


MAY 


RICKETY CHILDREN 

Friday, the 5 th. 

Not feeling well to-day, I have taken a vacation, and 
my mother took me to the Institution for Rickety 
Children, where she went to recommend our janitor’s 
child; but she would not permit me to go into the 
school. 

You did not understand, Enrico, why I did not allow 
you to enter, — so as not to place before the eyes of 
those unfortunates there in the midst of the school, as 
though on exhibition, a healthy, robust boy ; they have 
already but too many opportunities for making pain- 
ful comparisons. What a sorrowful thing! Tears 
rushed from my heart when I entered. There were 
about sixty of them, boys and girls. Poor tortured 
bones! Poor hands, poor little stiff and crooked feet! 

Poor little ugly bodies! I immediately noticed 
many charming faces with intelligent and affectionate 
eyes. One little child’s face had a pointed nose and a 
sharp chin, which seemed to belong to an old woman ; 
but its smile was one of celestial sweetness. Some 
looked at from the front face are pretty and seem to 
be without defects ; but when they turn round, they 
cast a weight upon your soul. 

The doctor was there visiting them. He stood them 
up straight on their benches and pulled up their little 
dresses to feel their little swollen stomachs and 

251 


252 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


enlarged joints ; but they were not a bit ashamed, poor 
creatures ! It was plain that they were children who 
were accustomed to being undressed, examined and 
turned round on all sides. And to think that they are 
now in the best period of their illness when they 
hardly suffer at all any more! But who can tell what 
they suffered while their little bodies were undergoing 
the first process of deformation, when with the 
increase of their infirmity they saw affection diminish 
around them, poor children! found themselves left 
alone for hour after hour in a corner of the room or 
the courtyard, badly nourished and at times scorned 
at, or tormented for months by bandages and by 
unnecessary orthopedic apparatus! But now, thanks 
to care and good nourishment and gymnastic exer- 
cises, many are improving. Their school teacher 
made them practice gymnastics. It was pitiful to see 
them, at a certain command, extend all those bandaged 
legs under the benches, squeezed as they were between 
splints, knotty and deformed; legs which should have 
been covered with kisses! Some could not get up 
from the bench and remained there, resting their 
heads on their arms, caressing their crutches with 
their hands ; others on thrusting out their ar^ms felt 
their breath leave them, and fell back in their seats 
with a pale face; yet they smiled to hide their pant- 
ing. 

Ah! Enrico! you other children do not prize your 
good health, and it appears to you so little a thing to 
be well! 

I thought of the strong and healthy children whom 
their mothers carry about triumphantly, proud of 
their beauty ; and I could have clasped all those poor 
little heads and pressed them desperately to my heart. 


MAY 


^53 


H'ad I been alone, I would have said; “I will never 
leave this place ; I wish to consecrate my life to you, 
to serve you, to be a mother to you all until my last 
day. ’ ’ And in the meantime they sang ; sang in their 
sweet, sad voices, which went to the soul ; and when 
their teacher praised them, they looked happy ; and as 
she passed along the benches they kissed her hands 
and wrists ; for they appreciate what is done for them, 
and are very affectionate. And they also have good 
minds, these angels, and study well, the teacher told 
me. A young and gentle teacher, whose face is filled 
with kindness, and a certain expression of sadness, 
like a reflection of the misfortunes which she caresses 
and comforts. Dear girl! Among all the human 
creatures who have to work for their living, there is 
not one who earns it more holily than yourself, my 
dear girl ! 


Your Mother. 


2 54 


A BOY'S LIFE AT SCHOOL 



Tuesday, the 9th. 

My mother is kind, 
and my sister Silvia 
is like her, and has 
a large and noble 
heart. Last evening 
I was copying a part 
of the monthly story, 
“From the Apen- 
nines to the Andes,” 
— which the teacher 
has distributed 
among us all in small 
portions to copy, be- 
cause of its great length, — when Silvia entered on tip- 
toe, and said to me in a low voice and hurriedly : “Come 


MAY 


^55 


to see mamma, with me. This morning I heard them 
talking together. Some affair has gone wrong with 
papa, and he was sad. Mamma was trying her best 
to encourage him. Our means are scarce — do you 
understand? We have no more money. Papa said 
that in order to straighten out his affairs it would 
be necessary to make some sacrifices. Now we also 
must make sacrifices, must we not? Are you ready? 
Well, I will speak to mamma, and you must nod 
assent, and promise her on your honor that you will 
do everything that I shall say. ” ^ 

After saying this, she took hold of my hand and led 
me to our mother, who was sewing, lost in thought. 
I sat down on one end of the sofa, Silvia on the other, 
and she quickly said : 

“Listen, mamma, I have come to speak to you. We 
l5bth have something to say to you. ” Mamma looked 
at us in wonder, and Silvia began: 

“Papa has no money, has he?” 

“What is that you say?” replied mamma, turning 
scarlet. “What do you know about it? Who has told 
you?” 

“I know it,” said Silvia, firmly. “Well, then, 
listen, mamma; we also must make some sacrifices, 
too. You promised to give me a fan at the end of 
May, and Enrico expected to get his box of paints; 
we don’t want anything now; we don’t want to waste 
money; we shall be just as well pleased — you under- 
stand?” 

Mamma tried to speak; but Silvia said: “No; it 
must be so. We have decided. We don’t want any 
more fruit or anything else; no, not until papa has 
money again. Soup will be enough for us, and we 
will be content to eat bread in the morning for break- 


256 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


fast: and thus less will be spent for the table, for we 
already spend too much ; and we promise you that you 
will always find us perfectly happy. Is it not so, 
Enrico?” 

I replied that it was. “Always perfectly happy, ” 
repeated Silvia, closing mamma’s mouth with one 
hand. “And if there are any more sacrifices to be 
made, either in clothing or anything else, we will 
make them gladly; and we will even sell our presents; 
I will give up all my things, and will be your maid, so 
that we will not have anything done out of the house 
any more. I will work all day long with you, and I 
will do everything you wish, because I am ready for 
anything! For anything!” she exclaimed, throwing 
her arms around my mother’s neck, “provided that 
papa and mamma be saved further troubles, and that 
we behold you both once more at ease, and in gocTd 
spirits, as in former days, between your Silvia and 
your Enrico, who love you so dearly and who would 
give up their lives for you!” 

Ah! I have never seen my mother so overjoyed as 
she was on hearing these words; this was the first 
time she kissed us on the brow in that way, weeping 
and laughing, and became speechless. And then she 
convinced Silvia that she had not understood rightly; 
that we were not a bit reduced in money matters, as 
she imagined ; and she thanked us a hundred times, 
and was merry all that evening, until my father came 
in, when she told him all about it. He could not 
speak, poor father! But this morning, as we sat at 
the table, I felt both a great pleasure and a great sad- 
ness; for under my napkin was my box of paints, and 
under Silvia’s was her fan. 



THK DOCTOR WAS THERE VISITING THEM 



MAY 


«57 


THE FIRE 

Thursday, the nth. 

I had just finished copying my portion of the story, 
“From the Apennines to the Andes, '* this morning, and 
was looking for a subject for our own composition which 
the teacher had told us to write, when I heard unusual 
voices on the stairs, and presently two firemen entered 
the house, and asked my father’s permission to inspect 
the stoves and chimneys, because a smoke-pipe on the 
roof was on fire, and they could not tell to whom it 
belonged. 

My father said, “Pray do so.” And although there 
was no fire burning in our house, they inspected each 
room and laid their ears to the walls, to hear if the fire 
was roaring in the chimney flues which ran up to the 
other floor of the house. 

And while they were going through our apartments, 
my father said to me, “Here is a subject for your com- 
position, Enrico, — the firemen. Try to write down 
what I am about to tell you. 

“One evening about two years ago, upon leaving the 
Balbo Theatre, I had the opportunity to see them at 
work, for when I turned into the Via Roma, I beheld 
an unusual light and a great many people running. 
A house was on fire. Tongues of flame and clouds of 
smoke burst from the windows and the roof; men 
and women appeared at the windows, and then disap- 
peared, uttering desperate shrieks. There was a big 
tumult in front of the door; the crowd shouted, ‘They 
will be burned alive! Help! The firemen!’ Just 
then a carriage arrived and four firemen sprang out of 
it — the first who had reached the city hall — and rushed 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


258 

into the house. Hardly had they entered when a ter- 
rible thing happened ; a woman rushed to a window 
of the third story, with a yell, clutched the balcony, 
and remained thus clinging and almost suspended in 
the air, with her back outwards bending under the 
flames, which escaped from the room and almost 
touched her head. The people cried out in terror. 
The firemen, who by mistake had been stopped on the 
second floor by the terror-stricken lodgers, had already 
broken through a wall and hurled themselves into a 
room, when a hundred shouts gave them warning: ‘On 
the third floor! On the third floor!’ 

“They flew to the third floor, where there was an 
infernal uproar, — the roof beams crashing in, cor- 
ridors enveloped in a suffocating smoke. To get to 
the rooms where the lodgers were imprisoned, there 
was no other way left but to pass over the roof. They 
quickly sprang upon it, and after a moment something 
which looked like a black phantom was seen on the 
tiles, through the smoke. It was the corporal, who 
had got there before the others. But so as to get from 
the roof which led to the small suite of rooms cut off 
by the fire, he would be obliged to pass over a very 
narrow space between a skylight and the eaves ; all the 
rest was blazing, and that tiny space was covered with 
.snow and ice, and there was no place to hold on to. 

“ ‘It is impossible for him to pass!’ shouted the 
crowd below. 

“The corporal advanced along the edge of the roof. 

“All trembled and began to look at him, holding 
their breaths. He got over. A tremendous hurrah 
arose towards heaven. The corporal resumed his 
way, and when he got to the dangerous point, he 
began to break away, with violent blows of his ax. 


MAY 


259 

beams, tiles and rafters, so as to open a hole through 
which he could descend within. 

“During this time the woman was still suspended 
outside the window. The fire raged with increased 
fury above her head ; another moment and she would 
have fallen into the street. 

“The hole was opened, and we saw the corporal pull 
off his shoulder-belt and lower himself inside; the 
other firemen, who had arrived, followed. 

“Just then a very long Porta ladder, which had just 
arrived, was placed against the large cornice of the 
house, in front of the windows through which the 
flames and howls issued as of maniacs. But it seemed 
as though they were too late. 

“ ‘Nobod)’’ can be saved now!’ they shouted. ‘The 
firemen are burning! The end has come! • They are 
dead!’ 

“Suddenly the corporal’s black form was seen at the 
window with the balcony, lighted up by the flames 
overhead. The woman put her arms around his neck; 
he caught her round the body with both arms, drew 
her up, and laid her down inside the room. 

“The crowd set up a shout a thousand voices strong, 
which rose above the roar of the terrible fire. 

“But the others? And in what manner were they 
to get down? 

“The ladder, which was leaning against the roof on 
the front of another window, as at some distance from 
them. 

“How could they get to it? 

“While the people were wondering thus, one of the 
firemen appeared at the window, placed his right foot 
on the window-sill and his left on the ladder, and' 
standing thus upright in the air, he grasped the ten- 


260 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


ants one after the other as the firemen handed them to 
him from within, passed them on to a comrade who 
had climbed up from the street, and who after putting 
them securely on the ladder made them descend one 
after the other, while the other firemen at the bottom 
helped. 

“The woman of the balcony came first, then a baby, 
then another woman, and then an old man. All were 
saved. 

“After the old man, the fireman who had remained 
inside got down. The last person to descend was the 
corporal, who had been the first to hurry up. The 
crowd received them all with a burst of applause, but 
when the corporal appeared, the vanguard of the 
rescuers, he who had faced before the rest the abyss, 
and who would have died had it been destined that 
one should perish, the crowd saluted him like a con- 
queror, shouting and putting out their arms with an 
affectionate impulse of admiration and gratitude, and 
in a few minutes his obscure name — Joseph Robbino — 
rang from a thousand throats. 

“Do you understand? That is bravery — the courage 
of the heart, which knows no reason, which does not 
waver, which goes blindly on, like a flash of lightning, 
wherever it hears a dying man’s cry. As soon as pos- 
sible I will accompany you to the exercises of the 
firemen, and I will point out to you Corporal Robbino. 
I believe you would be very glad to know him, would 
you not?’’ 

I replied that I should. 

“Here he is,’’ said my father. 

I turned around startled. The two firemen, having 
finished their inspection, were crossing the room to 
reach the door. 


MAY 


261 


My father pointed to the smaller of the men, who 
wore straps of gold braid, and said : 

“Shake hands with Corporal Robbino. “ 

The corporal stopped and offered me his hand ; I 
clasped it ; he made a salute, and withdrew. 

“And remember this well,” said my father, “for 
out of the thousand of hands which you will shake 
during your lifetime, there will probably not be ten 
which possess the worth of his. ’ ’ 


262 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


FROM THE APENNINES TO THE ANDES 

(THE MONTHLY STORY) 



Quite a number of 
years ago a Genoese lad 
of thirteen, the son of a 
workingman, went from 
Genoa to South Amer- 
ica all alone in search 
of his mother. 

His mother had gone 
two years before to 
Buenos Ayres, the cap- 
ital of the Argentine 
Republic, to get employ- 
ment in a wealthy fam- 
ily, and in a way to 
earn in a short time 
enough to place her 
family once more in 
better circumstances. They became poor from 
various misfortunes, and were deep in debt. There 


MAY 


263 


are many brave women who take this long voyage 
with this object in view, and who, thanks to the good 
pay which people who work there receive, return 
home at the end of a few years with several thousand 
lire. The poor mother wept bitterly at parting from 
her children, one being eighteen and the other eleven ; 
but she left bravely and hopeful. 

The voyage proved successful, for she no sooner 
arrived at Buenos Ayres than she found through a 
Genoese shopkeeper a cousin of her husband, who had 
been in business there for a very long time, a good 
Argentine family, which gave high wages and treated 
her well. And for a short time she corresponded 
regularly with her family, for it had been settled 
between them, her husband addressed his letters to 
his cousin, who transmitted them to the woman, and 
the latter handed her replies to him, and he would 
mail them to Genoa, adding a few lines of his own. 
While there she earned sixteen dollars a month and 
spent nothing for herself, she, of course, sent home 
quite a large sum every three months. Her husband, 
who was a man of good morals, little by little paid off 
his debts and thus regained his good reputation. All 
during this time he worked away and was satisfied 
with the way things went, for he always kept up hope 
that his wife would shortly return; for the house 
seemed desolate without her, and the younger son in 
particular, who was extremely fond of his mother, was 
very much dejected and could not resign himself to 
having her so far away. 

But a year had gone by since they parted ; ^after a 
brief letter, in which she said her health was not very 
good, they heard nothing more. They wrote twice to 
the cousin, but he did not answer. They wrote to the 


264 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


Argentine family where the woman had been working, 
but it is possible that the letter never reached them, 
for they had misdirected it; and of course received no 
answer. Thinking something must be wrong, they 
wrote to the Italian Consulate at Buenos Ayres, to 
have inquiries made, and after three months passed 
they received an answer from the consul, that although 
advertisements had been put in the newspapers, still 
no one had presented herself nor sent any word. And 
it could not have happened otherwise, for this reason 
if for no other: that with the idea of sparing the good 
name of her family, which she fancied she was dis- 
crediting by becoming a servant, the good woman had 
given an assumed name to the Argentine family. 

Quite a few months had gone by and no word from 
their mother. The father and sons were very much 
grieved; the youngest was oppressed by a sadness 
which he could not get over. What was to be done? 
How could he leave his work and who was to go to 
America in search for his wife? The oldest boy could 
not go either, for he had just begun to earn something, 
and he was necessary to the family. And in this anx- 
iety they lived, repeating each day the same sad 
speeches, or looking at one another in silence. 
Finally, one night, Marco, the youngest, declared 
with determination, “I am going to America to look 
for my mother. ” His father shook his head sadly and 
made no reply. It was a kind thought, but it was 
impossible to undertake such a journey away to 
America. It would take a month, and the boy was 
only thirteen. But the boy patiently insisted. He 
persisted in that the next day, the day after, every 
day, with great calmness, reasoning seriously, as if he 
were a man. “Others have gone there,” he said. 


• MAY 


265 


“and smaller boys than I, too. As long as I get on 
the ship, I shall get there like anybody else, and when 
once there I will look for my cousin’s shop. 

“There are plenty of Italians there who will show 
me the different streets. After finding our cousin, I 
will surely find my mother, and if I do not find him, I 
will go to the consul. I will search out that Argen- 
tine family, no matter what happens; there is work 
for all there ; I shall find work also, enough at least to 
earn enough to get home.” And as the days went 
by he almost succeeded in persuading his father. His 
father thought very highly of him, and he also knew 
that he had good judgment and courage. Conse- 
quently he was hardened to privations and to sacri- 
fices ; and all these good qualities had grown stronger 
in his heart for the sacred plan in view of finding his 
mother, whom he worshiped. In addition to this, the 
captain of a steamer, the friend of an acquaintance of 
his, having heard the circumstances, undertook to get 
a free third-class ticket for the Argentine Republic. 

Finally, after a little hesitation, the father con- 
sented, and let his son go, and the trip was decided 
on. They filled a bag with clothes for him, put a few 
crowns in his pocket, and gave him the address of the 
cousin; and one beautiful night in April, when the 
boat was about to sail, his father said: 

“Marco, my son,*' as he gave him his last kiss, with 
tears rolling down his cheeks, and while standing on 
the steps of the steamer, which was on the point of 
starting, “take courage. You have set out on a holy 
undertaking, and God will protect thee.” 

Poor Marco! His heart was strong, and prepared 
for the worst hardship of the voyage; but when he 
caught a last glance at his beautiful Genoa as it disap- 


266 


A BOY S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


peared on the horizon, and found himself on the open 
sea on that colossal steamer, packed with emigrating 
peasants, alone, not knowing a soul, with that little 
bag which held all his belongings, a fit of melancholy 
seized him. For two days he remained crouching like 
a dog on the bows, hardly eating and filled with a 
great desire to cry. All kinds of sad thoughts ran 
through his mind, and the saddest, the most terrible, 
the one which would come always to his mind, was 
the thought that his mother was dead. In his broken 
and painful slumbers he constantly beheld a strange 
face, which surveyed him with a piteous look and 
whispered in his ear, “Your mother is dead!” And 
then he would wake up with a smothered cry. 

However, after passing the Straits of Gibraltar, at 
the first sight of the Atlantic Ocean, he gained courage 
and hope, but just for a short time, for when he would 
look at the vast but always smooth sea, the increasing 
heat, the misery of all those poor people who sur- 
rounded him, the thought that he was always alone 
seized him once more. The lonely and tiresome days 
which succeeded each other became confounded in his 
memory, as is the case with sick people. It seemed 
to him that he had been at sea a year. And every 
morning, on waking, he felt a new surprise at finding 
himself there alone on the wide, wide ocean on his 
way to South America. The beautiful flying fish 
which fell on deck every now and then, the wonderful 
tropical sunsets with their huge flame and blood-like 
clouds and those nocturnal phosphorescences which 
make the ocean appear all on fire like a sea of lava, 
did not produce on him the effect of real things, but of 
wonders one can see in a dream. When the weather 
was bad he would stay down in the sleeping room 


MAY 


267 


where everything was rolling and crashing; in the 
midst of confusion of voices were uttered lamenta- 
tions and evil words, and he thought that his last hour 
had come. There were other days when the sea was 
calm and yellowish with unbearable heat of unceasing 
tediousness ; endless and miserable hours during 
which the weary passengers, stretched motionless on 
the planks, seemed all dead. The voyage seemed 
never to end ; sea and sky, sky and sea ; to-day the 
same as yesterday, to-morrow like to-day, and so on 
forever. 

And for long hours he stood leaning over the side 
of the ship gazing at that never-ending sea in astonish- 
ment, thinking vaguely of his mother, until his eyes 
closed and his head drooped over with sleep, and once 
again he beheld that unknown face which gazed upon 
him with an air of appeal and repeated in his ear, 
“Your mother is dead!” and at the sound of that voice 
he awoke with a start, to resume his dreaming with 
wide open eyes, and to gaze at the unchanging horizon. 

The voyage lasted twenty-seven days, and the last 
part of the trip was the best. It was lovely weather, 
and the air was cool. He had become acquainted with 
a good old man, a Lombard, who was going to South 
America to find his son, a farmer, near the town of 
Rosario ; he had told him his whole story, and the old 
man kept saying every now and then as he tapped him 
on the nape of the neck with his hand, “Courage, my 
lad; you will find your mother well and happy.” 

The old man’s company kept the boy’s courage up, 
and his sad thoughts were turned into joyousness. 
Seated on the bow, beside the aged peasant, who was 
smoking his pipe, beneath the beautiful heavens cov- 
ered with stars, in the midst of a group of singing 


268 


A BOY'S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


peasants, he imagined to himself in his own mind a 
hundred times that he had arrived at Buenos Ayres; 
he saw himself in a certain street ; he found the shop ; 
he flew to his cousin. “How is my mother? Come, 
let us go at once ! Let us go at once ! ’ ’ They hurried 
on together ; they ascended a staircase ; a door opened. 
And here his silent soliloquy came to an end; his 
imagination was swallowed up in a feeling of tender- 
ness which could not be expressed, which made him 
secretly pull forth a little medal that he wore on his 
neck, and repeat his prayers as he kissed it. 

They arrived on the twenty-seventh day on a glorious 
May morning. The steamer cast anchor in the great 
river of the Plata, near the shore along which lies the 
vast city of Buenos Ayres, the capital of the Argentine 
Republic. He was filled with joy and impatience, 
because the splendid weather seemed a good sign. 
His mother was only a few miles from him! In a few 
hohrs more he would have seen her! He was in South 
America, in the new world, and he had had the nerve 
to come alone! The whole of that terrible long voy- 
age now seemed to him to have passed like a flash. 
It seemed to him that he had flown hither in a dream, 
and that he had that moment waked. He felt so con- 
tent that he hardly showed any surprise or distress 
when he put his hand in his pockets and felt only one 
of the two little piles into which he ha'd divided his 
little fortune, to be sure that if he lost one little pile 
he would have the other. Some one had stolen it and 
left him with only a few lire. ,But he did not mind this 
misfortune, for he was near his mother. With his bag 
in his hand, he descended with many other Italians to 
the tug-boat which brought him near the shore ; then 
he hurried down from the tug into a boat which was 


MAY 


269 


called Andrea Doria; and this landed them on the 
wharf. He said good-bye to his old Lombard friend, 
and started on his journey with long strides towards 
the city. 

When he entered the first. street he inquired of a 
man who was passing by if he would be so kind as to 
show him in which direction he should go in order to 
reach the street of Los Artes. By chance he stopped 
an Italian workingman, who looked at him with curi- 
osity, and inquired if he knew how to read. The lad 
nodded, “Yes.” “Well, then,” said the laborer, point- 
ing to the street from which he had just emerged, 
“keep straight on through there, and read the names 
of all the streets on the corners ; you will surely find 
the one you want. ’ ’ 

The boy thanked him and hurried down the streets 
which opened before him. It was a straight, narrow 
street, and seemed never to end. On each side were 
low white houses which looked like so many little 
villas. This street was packed with people, carriages 
and carts, which made a deafening noise; here and 
there waved enormous banners of all colors, with 
announcements in great large letters telling when the 
steamer would leave for strange cities. At every little 
distance along the street, on the right and left, he saw 
two other streets which ran straight ahead as far as he 
could see, also bordered by low white houses, crowded 
with people and vehicles, and bounded at the far end 
by the straight line of the enormous wide-spreading 
plains of South America, like the horizon at sea. The 
city seemed infinite to him; it seemed to him that he 
might wander for days or weeks seeing other streets 
like these, on one hand and on the other, and that all 
South America must be covered with them. He 


27 © 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


looked carefully at the names of the streets ; peculiar 
names which took him nearly all his time to read. At 
every new street he would come to he felt his heart 
beat, at the thought that it was the one he was looking 
for. He even stared M all the women, with the 
thought that he might meet his mother. He caught 
sight of one in front of him who made his heart beat ; 
he caught up to her; but she was a negro. And 
increasing his speed, he walked on and on. On arriv- 
ing at the cross-street, he read, and stood as though 
rooted to the spot. The name of the street was Del 
los Artes. Turning into it he saw the number 1 1 7 ; 
his cousin’s shop was No. 175. So he hastened on 
still more, almost running, and at No. 171 he was 
obliged to pause to regain his brd&th. And he said to 
himself : 

“Oh, my mother! my mother! It is certainly true 
that 1 shall see you in another moment!” He still ran 
on and arrived at a little haberdasher’s shop. This 
was it. He stepped up close to it and saw a woman 
with gra)^ hair and spectacles. 

“What do you wish, boy?” she asked him, in Spanish. 

“Is not this,” said the boy, speaking with an effort, 
“the shop of Francesco Merelli?” 

“Francesco Merelli is dead,” replied the woman, in 
Italian. 

The boy felt as though he had received a blow on 
his breast. 

“When did he die?” 

“Eh? quite a while ago,” replied the woman. 
“Months ago. His affairs were in a bad condition, and 
he ran away. It is said that he went to Bahia Blanca, 
some distance from here. And he died just after he 
reached there. The shop belongs to me.” 


MAY 


271 


The boy turned pale. Then he said quickly : 

“Merelli knew my mother, my mother, who was at 
service with Signor Mequinez. He alone could tell 
me where she is. I have come to America to find my 
mother. Merelli sent her our letters. I must find my 
mother.” 

“Poor boy!” said the woman; “I really can’t tell 
you, but I can ask the boy in the courtyard. He knew 
the young man who did Merelli ’s errands, and he may 
be able to tell us something.” 

She hurried to the end of the store and called the 
lad, who came right away. 

“Tell me,” asked the lady of the store, “do you 
remember whether Merelli ’s young man went once in 
a while to carry letters to a woman in service, in the 
house of his countryman?” 

“To Signora Mequinez,” replied the lad. “Yes, 
signora, sometimes he did — at the end of the street 
Del los Artes. ’ ’ 

“Ah! thank you, madam!” cried Marco. “Tell me 
the number; don’t you know it? Send some one with 
me ; come with me quickly, my boy ; I have still a few 
pennies left. ’ ’ 

And he said this with so much warmth that without 
waiting for the woman to request him, the other boy 
said, “Come,” and at once they were hurrying down 
the street. 

The two boys almost ran, without uttering a word, 
to the end of the great long street, made their way 
into the entrance of a little white house, and stopped 
in front of a handsome iron gate, and through the bars 
they could see a small yard filled with vases of flowers. 
Marco gave a vigorous pull at the bell. A young lady 
opened the door. 


272 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


“Do the Mequinez family live here?” asked the lad, 
anxiously. 

“They did live here,” replied the young lady, pro- 
nouncing her Italian in Spanish fashion. “Now we, 
the Zeballos, live here.” 

“And where have the Mequinez gone?” asked 
Marco, his heart beating fast. 

“They have gone to Cordova.” 

“Cordova!” exclaimed Marco. “Where is Cor- 
dova? And the person who worked for them, the 
woman, my mother! Their servant was my mother! 
Have they taken my mother away, too?” 

The young lady looked at him and said: 

“I do not know. Perhaps my father may know, for 
he knew them when they went away. Wait a 
moment.” 

She ran away, and soon returned with her father, a 
tall gentleman, with a gray beard. He looked fixedly 
for a minute at this sympathetic type of a little 
Genoese sailor with his golden hair and his hooked 
nose, and asked him in broken Spanish : 

“Is your mother a Genoese?” 

Marco replied that she was. 

“Well, then, the Genoese servant went with them; 
that I know for sure.” 

“And where have they gone?” 

“To Cordova, a city.” 

The boy gave a deep sigh ; then he said, with resig- 
nation, “Then I will go to Cordova.” 

“Ah, poor child!” exclaimed the gentleman, in 
Spanish; “poor boy! Cordova is hundreds of miles 
from here.” 

Marco turned as white as a corpse, and held with 
one hand to the railings. 


MAY 


273 


“Let us see — let us see,” said the gentleman, feel- 
ing great pity for the lad. “Come inside a moment ; 
let us see if anything can be done.” He sat down, 
gave the boy a seat, and made him tell his story, 
listened to it very attentively, thought a little, then 
said firmly, “You have no money, have you?” 

“I still have some — a little,” answered Marco. 

After having thought for five minutes more, the 
gentleman seated himself at a desk, wrote a letter, 
sealed it, handed it to the boy and then said to 
him: 

“Listen to me, little Italian. Take this letter to 
Boca; that is a little city which is half Genoese, and is 
two hours’ journey from here. Any one can show 
you the road. Once there find the gentleman to 
whom this letter is addressed, and whom every one 
knows, and give him the letter. To-morrow he will 
send 57'ou away to the town of Rosario, recommending 
you to some one there, who will find a way of enabling 
you to pursue your journey to Cordova, where you 
will find the Mequinez family and your mother. In 
the meantime, take this.” And he placed a few lire 
in his hand. “Go, and keep up your courage; you 
will find your fellow-countrymen everywhere, and I 
am sure you will not be deserted. Adios!” 

The boy said, “Thanks,” without finding any other 
words to express himself, went out with his bag and 
having taken leave of his little guide, he began his 
journey to Boca, filled with sadness and bewilder- 
ment, across that great and noisy town. 

No matter what happened to him from that moment 
until the evening of the following day, all seemed 
confused and uncertain in his memory, like the wild 
roaring of a person in a fever. He was weary. 


274 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


troubled and despondent. And at nightfall on the 
following day, after sleeping all night in a poor little 
room in a house in Boca, beside a harbor porter, after 
having passed nearly the whole of that day seated on a 
pile of lumber, thousands of ships and boats and tugs, 
he found himself on the stern of a large sailing vessel, 
packed with fruit, which was starting out for the town 
of Rosario mastered by three strong, healthy Genoese, 
who were brown from the sun ; and their voices aiid 
the dialect which they spoke gave him courage once 
more. 

They set sail and the voyage lasted three days and 
four nights, and it was a continual astonishment to the 
little traveler. Three days and four nights on that 
wonderful river Parana, in comparison with which our 
great Po is but a rivulet ; and the length of Italy quad- 
rupled does not equal that of its course. The boat 
advanced slowly against this body of water which 
could not be measured. It worked its way among 
long islands, once the frequent resort of serpents and 
tigers, covered with orange-trees and willows, like 
floating pieces of bark ; now they passed through nar- 
row canals, from which it seemed as though they could 
never issue forth ; now they sailed out on great 
expanses of water, having the look of calm lakes ; then 
among islands again, through the intricate channels 
of an archipelago, amid great quantities of vegetation. 
A stillness reigned, for long stretches the shores and 
very vast and solitary waters produced the impression 
of an unknown stream upon which this poor little sail 
was the first in all the world to venture itself. The 
longer they would sail the more this monstrous river 
would discourage him. He thought that his mother 
was at its source, and that their sailing must last for 


MAY 


275 


years. Twice a day he ate a little bread and salted 
meat with the boatmen, who, noticing that he was Sad, 
never talked to him. At night he slept on deck and 
woke every little while with a start, bewildered by the 
transparent light of the moon, reflected like silver on 
the great expanse of water and the shores; and then 
his heart sank within him. 

“Cordova!” He repeated that name, “Cordova,” 
like the name of one of those mysterious cities of 
which he had heard in fables. But then he thought, 
“My mother traveled over this spot; she saw these 
islands, these shores”; and then these places upon 
which the glance of his mother had fallen no longer 
seemed strange and lonely to him. 

At night one of the boatmen sang and his voice 
brought back to his memory his mother’s songs when 
she had sung him to sleep as a little child. On the 
last night when he heard that song, he cried. The 
boatman stopped his song and cried: 

“Courage, courage, my son! What, the deuce! A 
Genoese crying because he is a long distance from 
home! The Genoese travel the world, glorious and 
triumphant!” 

And at these words he braced up, when he heard the 
•voice of the Genoese blood, and he proudly raised his 
head and dashed his fist down on the rudder. 

“Well, yes,” he said to himself; “if I should have 
to travel over the wide world for years and years, even 
walking hundreds of miles, I will never stop until I 
find my mother, no matter whether I arrive in a dying 
condition or fall dead at her feet. If only I can see her 
once again! Courage!” And with these thoughts he 
arrived at daybreak, on a cool and bright morning, in 
front of the city of Rosario, situated on the high bank 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


276 

of the Parana, where the be flagged yards of a hun- 
dred vessels of every land were mirrored in the 
waves. 

No sooner had he arrived than he started to the town 
with his bag in hand to look for an Argentine gentle- 
man to whom he had been directed with a visiting card 
and a few words of recommendation from the man who 
had befriended him in Boca. On entering Rosario, it 
seemed to him that he was coming into a city with 
which he was already familiar. There were the 
straight, endless streets, bordered with low white 
houses, crossed in all directions above the roofs by 
great networks of telegraph and telephone wires, 
which resembled enormous spider webs. There were 
great crowds of people, horses and vehicles. 

He became bewildered, for he almost thought he 
was back in Buenos Ayres, and must hunt up his 
cousin once more. He wandered about for nearly an 
hour, going down one street after the other and seem- 
ing always to come back to the same street; and by 
inquiring a good deal he found the house of his new 
protector. 

He pulled the bell and a great large man with light 
hair and coarse voice, who put one in mind of a stew- 
ard, opened the door. He demanded awkwardly, 
with a foreign accent : 

“What do you want?” 

The boy told who he was looking for. 

“The master has gone away,” replied the steward; 
“he left here with all his family yesterday afternoon 
for Buenos Ayres. ’ ’ 

The boy was left speechless. Then he stammered, 
“But I — I have no one here! I am alone!” and he 
offered the card. The steward took it, read it, and 


MAY 


277 

.said surlily: can’t do anything for you; but I’ll 

give it to the master when he. returns in a month.” 

“But I — I am alone; I am in need!” exclaimed the 
lad, in a pleading voice. 

“Eh? come now,” said the other; “just as though 
there were not a great number of your sort in Rosario ! 
Be off, and do your begging in Italy!” And he shut 
the door in his face. 

The boy stood as though nailed to the spot. 

Then he picked up his bag again slowly, and started 
away, his heart torn with anguish, and his mind in a 
whirl. All at once a thousand anxious thoughts filled 
his mind. What was to be done? Where was he to 
go? From Rosario to Cordova was a day’s journey on 
the train. He had only a few lire left. After sub- 
tracting what he should be obliged to spend that day 
he would have hardly anything left. Where was he to 
find the money to pay his fare? He could work, but 
how? Where should he apply for work? Ask help? 
Ah, no! To be repulsed, insulted, humiliated, as he 
had been a little while ago? No; never, never more — 
rather would he die! And at this idea and at the 
sight of the very long street which seemed never to 
end, he felt his courage desert him once more. Sling- 
ing his bag on the sidewalk, he sat down with his back 
against the wall, his head bent between his hands, 
looking the picture of despair. 

Some of the passers-by jostled him with their feet, 
and quite a number of boys stopped to look at him, 
and the wagons filled the road with noise. He 
remained in that position for a long time, then he was 
startled by a voice saying to him in a mixture of 
Italian and Lombard dialect, “What is the matter, 
little boy?” ' 


278 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


He raised his face at these words, and sprang to his^ 
feet, uttering a cry of wonder : 

“You here!’’ 

It was the old Lombard peasant with whom he had 
made friends during the voyage. 

The peasant was also greatly astonished on seeing 
the boy. The lad did not give him time to ask ques- 
tions, for he quickly told his old friend all that had 
happened since the morning they landed in Buenos 
Ayres. 

“Now I must go to work, for I am without a cent. 
Find me work, that I may get a few earnings. I will 
do anything; carry rubbish, sweep the streets; run on 
errands or even work in the country; I am content to 
live on black bread; but only let it be so that I may 
set out quickly, that I may find me work, for the love 
of God, for I can do no more ! ’ ’ 

“The deuce! the deuce!’’ said the peasant, looking 
about him, and rubbing his chin. “What a story is 
this ! To work, to work ! — that is soon said. Let us 
look about a little. I wonder if there is no way of 
finding five dollars among so many fellow-country- 
men?” 

The boy looked at him, with a look of hope on his face. 

“Come with me.’* 

“Where?” asked the lad, gathering up his bag again. 

“Come with me.” 

The peasant started on ; Marco followed him. They 
walked for a long time on a street without talking 
when finally the peasant halted at the door of an inn 
which had for its sign a star, and an inscription 
beneath, “The Star of Italy.” He peeped through 
the window, and turning to the boy, he said cheer- 
fully, “We have arrived at just the right moment.” 


MAY 


279 


They entered a large room, where there were a 
gfreat many little tables, and many men seated, drink- 
ing and talking loudly. The old Lombard approached 
the first table, and from the manner in which he 
saluted the six guests who were gathered around it, it 
was evident that he had been in their company a little 
while befofe. Their faces were all red, and they were 
clinking their glasses with shouts and laughs. 

“Comrades,” said the Lombard, getting up and 
presenting Marco, “here is a poor lad, our fellow- 
countryman, who has come alone from Genoa to 
Buenos Ayres in search of his mother. When he 
arrived at Buenos Ayres they told him, ‘She is not 
here; she is in Cordova.’ He came in a boat to 
Rosario, which took three days and three nights, with 
a couple of lines of recommendation. He presented 
the card, but they looked at him with disgust. Why, 
he hasn’t even a cent to bless himself with. He is 
here alone and in despair. He is a boy with a good 
heart. Don’t you think we can gather up enough to 
pay for his ticket to go to Cordova in search for his 
mother, or are we to leave him here like a dog?” 

“Not for all the world, by heavens! That shall 
never be said!” they all shouted at once, pounding 
their fists on the tables. “A fellow-countryman of 
ours ! See what a handsome young rogue ! Out with 
your coppers, comrades! Bravo! Brave little boy, 
coming here all alone! Take a drink, comrade, and 
don’t fear, because we’ll send you to your mother.” 
And one pinched his cheek, another slapped him on 
the shoulder, a third held his bag for him, other emi- 
grants rose from the neighboring tables, and gathered 
about; the boy’s story made the round of the inn; 
three Argentine guests came quickly in from the next 


28 o 


A BOY'S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


room; and in less than ten minutes the Lombard 
peasant, who was passing round the hat had collected 
about eight dollars. 

“Do you see," he turned to the boy and said “how 
fast things are done in America?" 

“Drink!" cried another to him, handing him a glass 
of wine; “to the health of your mother!" 

All raised their glasses, and Marco repeated, “To 

the health of my " But a sob of joy kept him 

from finishing, and setting the glass on the table, he ^ 
threw his arms around his old friend’s neck. 

At the dawn of the following morning he set out for 
Cordova, with a good will and smiling, filled with pre- 
sentiments of happiness. But there is no cheerfulness 
that lasts long when nature is gloomy. The weather 
was stifling and dull; the train, which was nearly 
empty, ran through an immense plain, without even 
the sight of habitation. He found himself alone in a 
very long car, which resembled trains which carry the 
wounded. He gazed to the right and to the left, and 
he saw nothing but an endless solitude, here and there 
tiny deformed trees, with twisted trunks and branches, 
in attitudes such as were never seen before, almost of 
wrath and anguish, scattered and neglected vegeta- 
tion, which gave to the plain the look of a ruined 
cemetery. 

He dozed for half an hour; then he would look 
around again, and the sight was still the same. The 
railway stations looked deserted, like dwellings of her- 
mits; and when the train stopped, not a sound was 
heard ; it seemed to him that he was alone in a lost 
train, abandoned in the middle of a desert. It seemed 
to him as though each station must be the last, and 
that he should then enter the mysterious land of the 



A LONG LINE OF WAGONS WAS PUT IN ORDER 


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MAY 


281 


savages. A cold breeze nipped his face. On embark- 
ing at Genoa, towards the end of April, he never 
realized that he should find winter in America, and he 
was dressed for summer. 

When he was several hours on the train he began to 
suffer from cold, and beside the cold weather he was 
exhausted from the days he had recently passed 
through, for they had been filled with fearful emotion 
and from sleepless and tiresome nights. He fell 
asleep, slept a long time, and awoke shivering and 
very ill. Then a vague terror of getting sick or dying 
on the journey run in his mind, a fear of being thrown 
out there, in the middle of that lonely prairie, where 
his body would be torn in pieces by dogs and birds of 
prey, like the remains of horses and cows which he 
had caught sight of every now and then beside the 
track, and from which he had turned aside his eyes in 
disgust. In this state of anxious illness, in the midst 
of that dark silence of nature, his imagination became 
troubled, and he took everything on the dark side. 

Was he certain, after all, that he should find his 
mother at Cordova, or what if she had not gone there? 
What if that gentleman in the Via del los Artes had 
made a mistake? And what if she were dead? With 
all these thoughts he fell asleep again and dreamed 
that he was in Cordova at night, and that he heard 
cries from all the doors and windows, “She is not 
here! She is not here! She is not here!” Such a 
dream awoke him with a start, and he became terrified 
at beholding at the other end of the car three bearded 
men wrapped in shawls of many colors, who were star- 
ing at him and talking together in a low tone; and in 
a moment his suspicions became aroused that they 
were assassins, and that they wanted to murder him to 


282 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


steal his bag. Fear was added to his consciousness of 
.illness and to the cold; his fancy already was dis- 
turbed ; he was troubled, and still the three men kept 
staring at him; one of them moved towards him; 
then he lost control of himself and rushing towards 
him, with arms wide open, he cried: “I have nothing; 
I am a poor boy just come from Italy; I am in search 
of my mother: I am alone so do not do me any 
harm!” 

In a moment they understood the situation; and 
were moved to pity, for they caressed him, speaking 
to him many words which he did not hear nor under- 
stand, and noticing that the boy’s teeth were chatter- 
ing with cold, they wrapped one of their shawls around 
him and told him to sit down again, so that he might 
go to sleep. And once again he fell asleep, just at 
dusk. When they awoke him he was at Cordova. 

Ah! what a deep, long breath he drew, and with 
what impetuosity he flew from the car! He inquired 
of one of the station employes where the house of the 
engineer Mequinez was situated; the latter mentioned 
the name of a church; it stood beside the church; the 
boy hastened away. 

It was night when he entered the city, and it seemed 
to him that he was entering Rosario once more ; that 
he again beheld those straight streets, bordered with 
little white houses and crossed by other very long and 
straight streets. But there were very few people, and 
under the light of the street lamp he came across 
strange faces of a color unknown to him, between 
black and greenish, and he saw churches of bizarre 
architecture which were outlined black and immense 
against the sky. The city was dark and silent, but 
after having gone across that immense desert it looked 


MAY 


283 

brighter to him. He asked his way of a priest, imme- 
diately found the church and the house, pulled the bell 
with his hand trembling and with the other pressed on 
his breast to quiet the beating of his heart, which he 
thought was jumping into his throat. An old woman 
opened the door, holding a light. The boy could not 
speak at once. 

“Who are you looking for?” asked the woman, in 
Spanish. 

“The engineer Mequinez,” replied Marco. 

The old woman crossed her arms on her breast, and 
replied, with a shake of the head, “And are you also 
looking for the engineer Mequinez? It seems to me 
that it is time to stop this, for we have been worried 
for the last three months. It is not enough that the 
newspapers have published it. We shall have a sign 
put up on the corner of the street, that Signor 
Mequinez has gone to live at Tucuman!” 

The boy gave way to a gesture of despair. Then he 
gave way to a terrible emotion. 

• “So there is a curse upon me!” It is my destiny to 
die on the road, without having found my mother! I 
know I shall go mad or kill myself! Go mad! I shall 
kill myself! My God! what is the name of that coun- 
try? Where is it? At what distance is it situated.” 

“Eh, poor poy!” answered the old woman, moved 
to pity; “a mere trifle! To say the least, it is four or 
five hundred miles from here.” 

The boy hid his face with his hands ; then he asked, 
with a sob, “And now what am I to do?” 

“What can I say to you, my poor child?” responded 
the woman. “I don’t know.” 

But all of a sudden an idea struck her, and she 
added hastily, “Listen now, while I remember it. 


284 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


There is one thing that you can do. Go down this 
street and keep to the right, and at the third house you 
will find a courtyard; there there is a capataz, a 
trader, who starts to-morrow for Tucuman, with his 
wagons and his oxen. Tell him you want work, and 
see if he will take you ; he will give you a place on his 
wagons ; go at once. ’ ’ 

The lad picked up his bag, thanked her as he ran, 
and two minutes later he was standing in the great 
large courtyard, lighted by lanterns, where a number 
of men were engaged in loading sacks of grain on big 
wagons, which resembled the movable houses of 
mountebanks with round tops, and very high wheels ; 
and a tall man wrapped in a sort of mantle of black 
and white check with big boots was directing the 
work. 

The lad went up to this man and timidly told him 
what he wanted, saying that he had come from Italy 
and was in search of his mother. 

The capataz or the head conductor of this convoy of 
wagons looked at him sharply from head to foot and 
replied sarcastically: 

‘ ‘ I have no place. ’ ' 

“I have fifteen lire,” answered the boy, in a plead- 
ing tone; ‘T will give you my fifteen lire, will work on 
the journey ; will fetch the water and food for the ani- 
mals ; will perform all sorts of services, and all I ask 
is a little bread. Try and make a little place for me, 
signor.” 

The capataz looked at the lad again and said with a 
better manner: ‘‘There is no room and then, too, we 
are going to Santiago dell’ Estero. You will have to 
get out when we reach a certain place, and you will 
still have a long way to go on foot. ’ ’ 


MAY 


285 

“Ah, I can walk double that distance,” claimed 
Marco; I am a good walker, so don’t worry about 
that; I shall get there by some means or other; make 
a little room for me, signor, out of compassion; for 
mercy’s sake, do not abandon me here alone!” 

“Remember, it is a journey of twenty days.” 

“It does not make any difference to me.” 

“It is a hard journey. ” 

“I will stand all the hardships.” 

“You will have to travel alone.” 

‘ ‘ I am afraid of nothing if I can only find my mother. 
So have a little pity for me!” 

The capataz drew his face close to a lantern and 
scrutinized him. Then he said, “Very well.” 

The lad kissed his hand. 

“You shall sleep in one of the wagons to-night,” 
added the capataz, as he left him ; to-morrow morning, 
at four o’clock, I will wake you. Good-night.” 

At four o’clock in the morning, by the light of the 
stars, the long line of wagons were put in order, mak- 
ing a terrible noise. Each wagon was drawn by six 
oxen, and all were followed by a great number of 
spare animals for a change. 

The boy, who had been awakened, was put in one of 
the wagons, and he fell into a sound sleep with his 
head on a sack. When he awoke the convoy had halted 
in a lonely spot, full in the sun, and all the men — the 
peons — were gathered round a quarter of calf, which 
was roasting over a big fire in the open air, stuck on an 
iron spear and planted firmly in the ground. The fire 
was greatly agitated from the wind. They all ate 
together, rested for a while, and then set out again ; 
and thus the journey continued, regulated like a march 
of soldiers. Every morning they set out on the road 


286 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


at five o’clock, stopped at nine, set out again at five 
o’clock in the evening, and halted agarin at ten. The 
peons rode on horseback, and every now and then they 
whipped the oxen with long sticks. The boy had to 
light the fire for the roasting, give the beasts their 
food, shine up the lanterns, and carry water for the 
men. 

The landscape passed before him like an indistinct 
vision ; vast groves of little brown trees : villages con- 
taining a few houses here and there, with red and bat- 
tlemented facades; immense tracts, possibly the 
ancient beds of great salt lakes, which gleamed white 
with salt as far as the eye could reach ; and every- 
where the prairie, solitude, silence. Very seldom they 
met two or three travelers on horseback, followed by a 
herd of picked horses, who passed them at a gallop, 
like lightning. The days were all alike, as at sea, 
wearisome and interminable, but the weather was 
excellent. But the peons demanded of him more and 
more work every day, and seemed co consider the lad 
as their bond slave; some of them treated him 
brutally, with threats; all forced him to serve them 
without mercy; they made him carry enormous bun- 
dles of forage, they sent him to get water at great dis- 
tances; and he, exhausted, could not even sleep at 
night, continually tossed from side to side as he was by 
the violent jolts of the wagon, and the deafening groan- 
ing of the wheels and wooden axles. And in addition 
to this, the wind lifted a fine, reddish, greasy dust, 
which enveloped everything, penetrated the wagon, 
made its way under the covers, filled his eyes and 
mouth, robbed him of sight and breath, continuously, 
oppressively, unbearably. Half dead from toil and 
lack of sleep, his clothes ragged and dirty, the poor 


MAY 


287 


boy grew every day more dejected, and would have 
lost heart entirely if the capataz had not said a kind 
word to him now and then. He often crept in a cor- 
ner of the wagon and cried, with his face against his 
bag, which now contained nothing but rags. Every 
morning he rose weaker and more disheartened, and 
as he looked out over the country and beheld always 
the same endless and wearisome plain, like a terres- 
trial ocean, he said to himself: “Ah, I can’t hold out 
until to-night! I shall not get through this day. 
To-day I shall die on the road!” And his toil became 
heavier, his ill treatment was redoubled. One morn- 
ing, in the absence of the capataz, one of the men 
struck him, because he had been a little late in fetch- 
ing the water. And then they all began to take turns 
at it, when they gave him an order, giving him a kick, 
saying, “Take that, you vagabond! Carry that to 
your mother!” 

His heart was breaking. He became very sick, and 
for three days lay covered all over, for he had con- 
tracted a fever; no one looked at him except the 
capataz, who came to give him his drink and feel his 
pulse. And then he imagined he was lost, and called 
his mother in despair: “Oh, my mother! my mother! 
Help me! Come to me, for I am dying! Oh, my poor 
mother! I shall never see you again! My poor 
mother, who will find me dead beside the way ! And 
he folded his hands over his bosom and prayed. 

Then he grew better, thanks to the care of the 
capataz, and recovered; but when he recovered the 
most terrible day of all the journey had come, the day 
on which he was to be left to his own devices. They 
had been traveling for more than two weeks ; when 
they arrived at the point where the road to Tucuman 


288 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


separated from that which leads to Santiago dell’ 
Estero, the capataz announced to him that they must 
part. He gave him some instructions about the road 
he must take, also tied his bag on his shoulders in a 
manner which would not annoy him as he walked, and 
with a sudden good-bye for fear he would feel sad at 
parting, they separated, the lad hardly having time to 
kiss him on one arm. The other men, too, who had 
treated him so harshly, seemed to feel a little pity at 
the sight of him thus left alone, and they waved their 
hands to him as they moved away. And he returned 
the salute with his hand, stood watching the convoy 
until it was lost to sight in the red dust of the plain, 
and then set out sadly on his road. 

One -thing, on the other hand, comforted him a little 
from the first. After all those days of travel across 
that endless plain, which was forever the same, he 
saw in front of him a chain of mountains very high 
and blue, with white summits, which called to his 
mind the Alps, and gave him the feeling of having 
drawn near to his own country once more. They were 
the Andes, the spinal column of the American con- 
tinent, that immense chain of mountains which 
extends from Tierra del Fuego to the glacial sea of 
the Arctic pole, through a hundred and ten degrees of 
latitude. And he was also comforted that the air 
seemed to grow constantly warmer; and this hap- 
pened, because, in ascending towards the north, he 
was slowly advancing towards the tropics. At great 
distances apart there were tiny groups of houses with 
a little shop ; and he bought something to eat. He 
met men on horseback ; every now and then he saw 
women and children seated on the ground, motionless 
and grave, with faces which seemed strange to him. 



HE STOOD WATCHING THE CONVOY UNTIL IT WAS LOST TO SIGHT 








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MAY 


289 



of an earthen hue, with oblique eyes and high cheek 
bones, who looked at him intently,. and followed him 
with their gaze, turning their heads slowly like autom- 
atons. They were Indians. 

The first day he walked until his strength gave out, 
then he slept under a tree. On the second day he 
made less progress, and with less spirit. His shoes 


were worn out, his feet wounded and his stomach 
weakened by bad food. Towards evening he began 
to be alarmed ; he stopped, then set out on a run, and 
with cold chills running through all his bones. At 
times he was seized with a profound pity for himself, 
and he would cry silently as he walked. Then he 
thought, “Oh, how much my mother would suffer if 
she knew that I am afraid!” And this thought 
brought back his courage. Then, in order to distract 
his thoughts from fear, he would think about his 


290 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


mother and recall to his mind her words when she had 
set out from Genoa, and the movement with which she 
had spread the blanket under his chin when he was in 
bed, and when he was a baby ; for every time that she 
took him in her arms, she said to him, “Stay here a 
little while with me” ; and in this manner she would 
stay for a long time, with her head resting on his, 
thinking, thinking. And he said to himself: “Willi 
never see you again, dear mother? Shall I arrive at 
the end of my journey, mother?’* And he walked on 
and on among strange trees, vast plantations of 
sugar-cane, and fields without end, always with those 
blue mountains in front of him, which cut the sky 
with their exceedingly lofty crests. Four days, five 
days — a week passed. His strength was just about 
giving out and his feet had commenced to bleed. 
Finally, one evening at sunset, they said to him : 

“Tucuman is fifty miles from here.” 

He uttered a cry of joy, and hastened his steps as 
though he had, in that moment, regained all his lost 
strength. But it was a brief illusion. His forces 
suddenly left him, and he fell upon the brink of a 
ditch exhausted. But his heart was beating fast from 
happiness. The heavens were entirely covered with 
brilliant stars, and never seemed so beautiful to him. 
He thought over it as he lay stretched out on the grass 
to sleep, and thought that, perhaps, at that very 
moment his mother was watching him. And he said : 

“Oh, my mother! where are you? What are you 
doing at this moment? Do you ever think of your 
little son Marco, who is so near to thee?” 

Poor Marco! If he only knew in what condition his 
mother was at that moment, he would have made a 
superhuman effort to proceed on his way, and to reach 


MAY 


291 


her a few hours earlier. She was sick in bed in a 
ground-floor room of a lordly mansion, where lived the 
Mequinez family. The family had become attached to 
her, and had helped her a great deal. 

The poor woman had already been ailing when the 
engineer Mequinez had been obliged unexpectedly to 
start out from Buenos Ayres, and she had not benefited 
at all by the fine air of Cordova. But then, to know 
that she had received no response to her letters from 
her husband, nor Trom her cousin, the presentiment 
came to her mind of some great misfortune, the con- 
tinual anxiety in which she had lived, between the 
parting and staying, expecting every day some bad 
news had made her sickness harder to bear. Finally, 
a very serious sickness had taken hold of her, — a 
strangled internal rupture. She had not risen from 
her bed for two weeks. A surgical' operation was 
necessary to save her life. At precisely the moment 
when Marco was calling her, the master and mistress 
of the house were standing beside her bed, arguing 
with her, with great gentleness, to persuade her to 
allow herself to be operated on. She was determined 
not to have it, and she wept with grief. A good 
physician of Tucuman had come in vain a week before. 

“No, my dear master,” she said; “do not count 
upon it ; I have not the strength to stand it ; I should 
die under the surgeon’s knife. It is better to allow 
me to die thus. I no longer cling to life. All is at an 
end for me. It is better to die before knowing what 
has happened to my family.” 

And her master and mistress strongly opposed, and 
said that she must take courage, that she would 
receive a reply to the last letters, which had been sent 
directly to Genoa ; that she must allow the operation 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


292 

to be performed ; that it must be done for the sake of 
her family. But when they mentioned her children 
her discouragement became deeper, and had for a long 
time prostrated her, with increasing anguish. At 
these words she burst into tears. 

“Oh, my sons! my sons!” she exclaimed, wringing 
her hands; “perhaps they are no longer alive! It is 
better that I should die also. I thank you, my good 
master and mistress; I thank you from my heart. 
But it is better that I should die. No matter what 
happens, I am certain that I shall not be cured by this 
operation. Thanks for all your care, my good master 
and mistress. It will not become necessary for the 
doctor to come again after to-morrow. I wish to die, 
for I know it is my fate to die here. I have decided.” 

And they began again to console her, and to repeat, 
“Don’t say that,” and to take her hand and plead with 
her. 

But she closed her eyes from exhaustion, and fell 
into a doze, so that she appeared to be dead. And her 
master and mistress stayed for a while at her bedside, 
by the faint light of a taper, watching with great pity 
that admirable mother, who, for the sake of saving 
her family, had come to die six thousand miles from 
her country, to die after having toiled so hard, poor 
woman! and she was so honest, good and unfortu- 
nate. 

At sunrise on the following morning Marco, bent 
and limping, with his bag on his back, entered the 
city of Tucuman, one of the youngest and most pro- 
gressing towns of the Argentine Republic. It seemed 
to him that he beheld again Cordova, Rosario, Buenos 
Ayres: there were the same straight and extremely 
long streets, the same low white houses, but on every 


MAY 


293 


hand there was a new and magnificent vegetation, a 
scented air, a marvelous light, a sky dark and gloomy, 
such as he had never seen even in Italy. As he con- 
tinued on through the streets, he experienced once 
more the feverish agitation which had taken hold of 
him at Buenos Ayres ; he stared at the windows and 
doors of all the houses ; he gazed at all the women 
who passed him, with an anxious hope that he might 
meet his mother; he would have liked to question 
every one, but did not dare to stop any one. All the 
people who were standing at their doors would look 
around at him, for he was such a poor, ragged and 
dusty looking lad, who showed that he had traveled a 
long distance. And he was seeking, among all these 
people a face which should inspire him with enough 
courage in order to ask the question which was fore- 
most in his heart, when his eyes fell upon the sign of 
an inn upon which was written an Italian name. In 
the store was a man with glasses and two women. 
The door slowly opened, and gathering up enough 
courage he inquired: 

“Do you know, signor, where the family Mequinez 
is?” 

“The engineer Mequinez?” asked the innkeeper, in 
his turn. 

“The engineer Mequinez,” replied the lad, in a very 
weak voice. 

“The Mequinez family is not in Tucuman,” replied 
the innkeeper. 

A cry of anguish like that of one who has been 
stabbed, formed an echo to these words. 

The innkeeper and the women j umped up, also the 
neighbors came running in. 

“What’s the matter? What ails you, my boy?” said 


294 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


the innkeeper, drawing him into the shop, telling him 
to sit down. “The deuce ! there’s no reason for acting 
in that manner. The Mequinez family don’t live here, 
but a little distance off — a few hours’ ride from Tucu- 
man." 

“Where, where?” cried Marco, springing up like 
one restored to life. 

“Fifteen miles from here,” continued the man, “on 
the river, at Saladillo, in a place where a big sugar 
factory is being built, and a cluster of houses. You 
can reach it in a few hours. ’ ’ 

“I was there a month ago,” said a youth, who also 
came forward when he heard the boy cry. 

Marco stared at him with his eyes open wide, and 
asked him quickly, turning pale as he did so, “Did 
you see the servant of Signor Mequinez — the Italian?” 

“The Genoese? Yes; I saw her.” 

Marco burst into a sob which was half a laugh and 
half a sob. 

Then, with a burst of fixed determination : “Which 
way am I to go? Quick, the road! I shall set out 
this moment. Show me the way!” 

“But it is a day’s march,” they all told him in one 
breath. “You are tired and should rest; you can set 
out to-morrow. ’ ’ 

“Impossible! impossible!” replied the lad. “Tell 
me the way; I will not wait another instant ; I shall 
start at once, even if I die on the way.” 

On noticing he was firm, they no longer opposed 
him. “May God be with you!” they said to him. 
“Look out for the path through the forest. A good 
journey to you, little Italian. ’ ’ A man went as far as 
the outskirts of the town and showed him the road, 
gave him a little advice, and stood still to watch him 


MAY 


295 


start. In a few minutes the lad was out of sight, 
limping, with his bag on his shoulders, behind the 
thick trees which lined the road. 

That night was a dreadful one for the poor sick 
woman. She suffered agonizing pain, which wrung 
from her shrieks which were enough to burst her 
veins, and of course made her delirious at times. The 
women waited on her. She lost her head. Her mis- 
tress ran in from time to time, in alarm. All began 
to fear that, even if she had decided to allow herself 
to be operated on, the doctor, who was not to come 
until the next day, would have arrived too late. Dur- 
ing the moments when she was not delirious one could 
plainly see that her most terrible torture arose not 
from her bodily pains, but from the thought of her 
family being so far away. Emaciated, wasted away, 
with changed countenance, she run her hands through 
her hair, with a gesture of desperation, and shrieked : 

“My God! My God! To die so far away, to die 
without seeing them again! My poor children, who 
will be left motherless, my poor little creatures, my 
poor darlings! My Marco, who is still so small! only 
as tall as this, and so good and affectionate! You do 
not know what a boy he was! If you only knew, sig- 
nora! He clung to my neck when I left Genoa; he 
sobbed in a way to move your pity; he sobbed; it 
seemed as though he knew that he would never see 
his poor mother again. Poor Marco, my poor baby! 
I thought that my heart would break ! Ah, if I had 
only died then, died while they were bidding me fare- 
well! If I had but dropped dead! Without a mother, 
my poor child, he who loved me so dearly, who needed 
me so much ! without a mother, in misery, he will be 
forced to ask charity ! He, Marco, my Marco, will put 


296 A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 

out his hand, starving! O eternal God! No! I will 
not die ! The doctor ! Call the doctor in at once ! let 
him come, let him cut me, let him cleave my breast, 
let him drive me mad ; but let him save my life ! I 
want to recover; I want to live, to fly away to-mor- 
row, even now! The doctor! Help! help!” 

And the women seized her hands and caressed her, 
and made her calm herself little by little, by speaking 
words of God and hope. And then she fell back again 
into a mortal dejection, wept with her hands clutched 
in her gray hair, cried like a baby, uttering a pro- 
longed lament, and murmuring from time to time : 

‘‘Oh, my Genoa! My house! All that sea! — Oh, 
my Marco, my poor Marco! Where is he now, my 
poor darling?” 

It was midnight, and her poor Marco, after having 
passed many hours on the edge of a ditch, his 
strength exhausted, started walking through a forest 
of gigantic trees, monsters of vegetation, great trunks 
like the pillars of a cathedral, which intermixed their 
immense silvery branches by the moon, at a great 
height. Vaguely, amid the half darkness, he caught 
glimpses of myriads of trunks of all forms, upright, 
inclined, contorted, crossed in strange postures of 
menace and of conflict ; some had fallen to earth like 
towers which had fallen down long ago, and covered 
with confused masses of plants which seemed like a 
furious throng, disputing the grounds span by span ; 
others gathered in great groups, vertical and serrated, 
like trophies of titanic lances, whose leaves appeared 
to touch the clouds ; a superb grandeur, a prodigious 
disorder of colossal forms, the most majestically ter- 
rible spectacle which vegetable nature ever presented. 

At times he was overwhelmed by a great stupor. 


• MAY 


297 


But his mind instantly wandered back towards his 
mother. He was worn out, with bleeding feet, alone 
in the middle of this fearful forest, where it was only 
at long distances he would see a few human dwell- 
ings, also at the bottom of the trees he would see little 
ant hills, or some buffalo asleep beside the road; he 
was exhausted, but he did not have time to think of it; 
he was alone, and he felt no fear. The grandeur of 
the forest made him feel so happy; to think he was 
near his mother made him feel like a man ; the 
memory of the ocean, of the alarms and the sufferings 
which he had undergone and vanquished, of the toil 
which he had gone through, of the iron constancy 
which he had displayed caused him to uplift his brow. 
All his strong and noble Genoese blood flowed back to 
his heart in an ardent tide of joy and boldness. And 
a new thing took place within him; all during the 
travels and just about up to this time, he bore in mind 
the image of his mother, who seemed paler and thin- 
ner than when she left Genoa two years ago, but just 
at that moment the image grew clear ; he again beheld 
her face, perfect, and distinct, as he had not beheld it 
for a long time ; he beheld it close to him, illuminated, 
speaking ; he again beheld the most fleeting motions 
of her eyes, and of her lips, all her attitudes, all the 
shades of her thoughts ; and urged on by these fond 
recollections, he hastened his steps ; and a new affec- 
tion, an unspeakable tenderness, took hold of his heart 
which made sweet and quiet tears to flow down his 
face ; and as he continued on through the half darkness 
he spoke to her, he said to her the words which he 
would murmur in her ear in a little more : 

“I am here, my mother; behold me here. I will 
never leave you again ; we will return home together. 


298 A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 

and I will never leave your side on board the ship, and 
no one shall ever part me from you again ; no one, 
never more, so long as I have life!” 

All during this time he did not notice how the sil- 
very light of the moon was dying away on the top of 
the enormous trees in the pale whiteness of the dawn. 

At eight o’clock on that morning the young Argen- 
tine doctor, also an assistant from Tucuman, was 
already by the bedside of the sick woman, endeavor- 
ing, for the last time, to persuade her to permit her- 
self to be operated on; and the engineer Mequinez and 
his wife also added their persuasions to those of the 
former. But all this did no good, for the woman, feel- 
ing her strength exhausted, had no longer any faith in 
the operation; she was positive that she should die 
under it, or that she should only survive it a few 
hours, after having suffered in vain pains that were 
more atrocious than those of which she should die in 
any case. The doctor once more tried to persuade her 
by saying: 

‘‘The operation is a safe one ; that is, if you pick up a 
little courage ! And your death is equally certain if you 
refuse!” But the doctor might as well have kept still. 

“No,” she replied, in a faint voice, ‘‘I still have 
courage to die; but I no longer have any to suffer use- 
lessly. Leave me to die in peace.” 

The doctor said no more, for he was greatly dis- 
couraged. Then the woman turned her face towards 
her mistress, and addressed to her her last prayers in 
a dying voice. 

‘‘Dear, good signora,” she said, under a great 
strain, ‘‘you will send this little money and my poor 
little belongings to my family — through the consul. 
I hope that they may all be alive. My heart presages 


MAY 


299 


well in these, my last moments. You will do me the 
favor to write — that I have always thought of them, 
that I have always toiled for them — for my children — 
that my sole grief was not to see them once more — but 
that I died bravely — with resignation — blessing them ; 
and that I recommend to my husband — and to my 
elder son — the youngest, my poor Marco — that I 

thought of him in my heart until the last moment ” 

And all of a sudden she became excited and shrieked, 
“My Marco, my baby, my life!” But on casting her 
tearful eyes round her, she saw that her mistress had 
gone. She cast her eyes around for her master, but 
he also had left the room. No one remained with her 
except the two nurses and the assistant. vShe heard in 
the adjoining room the sound of hurried footsteps, a 
murmur of hasty and low voices, and repressed excla- 
mations. The sick woman fixed her staring eyes on 
the door, in expectation. At the end of a few minutes 
she saw the doctor appear with an expression on his 
face which she had not noticed before; then her mis- 
tress and master, with their countenances also altered. 
All three gazed at her with a singular expression, and 
whispered a few words to one another. She fancied 
that the doctor said to her mistress, “Better let it be 
at once.” She did not understand. 

“Josifa,” said her mistress to the sick woman, in a 
trembling voice, “I have some good news for you. 
Prepare your heart for good news. ’ ’ 

The woman watched her very closely. 

“News,” said her mistress, with increasing agita- 
tion, “which will give you great joy.” 

The sick woman’s eyes became larger. 

“Prepare yourself,” continued her mistress, “to see 
a person of whom you are very fond. ’ ’ 


300 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


The woman raised her head with a quick start, and 
began to gaze in rapid succession first at the lady and 
then at the door, with flashing eyes. 

“A person,” added the lady, turning pale, “who has 
just arrived — unexpectedly. ” 

‘‘Who is it?” cried the woman, with a strange and 
choked voice, like that of a person in terror. A 
moment later she gave vent to a shrill scream, sat 
upright in her bed, and remained motionless as in the 
presence of a supernatural apparition. 

Marco, with his clothes all torn and dusty, stood 
there on the threshold, held back by the doctor’s hand 
on one arm. 

The woman uttered three shrieks. 

‘‘God! God! My God!” 

Marco sprang to the bedside, she stretched out to 
him her thin arms, and holding him to her heart with 
the strength of a tiger, she burst into a violent laugh, 
broken by deep, tearless sobs, which made her to fall 
back suffocating on her pillow. 

But she recovered in a few seconds, and mad with 
joy, she shrieked as she covered his head with kisses. 

‘‘How do you come here? Why? Is it you? You 
have grown so large! Who brought you? Are you 
alone? You are not ill? Is it you, Marco, or is it a 
dream? My God! Speak to me!” 

Then she suddenly changed her tone : 

‘‘No! Be silent! Wait!” Looking at the doctor, 
she said, with precipitation: ‘‘Quick, doctor! this 
instant! I want to get well. I am ready. Do not 
lose a moment. Take Marco away, so that he may 
not hear. — Marco, my love, it is nothing. I will tell 
you about it. One more kiss. Go! Here I am, doc- 
tor.” 


MAY 


301 


Marco was taken away. The master, mistress, and 
women retired in haste ; the surgeon and his assistant 
remained behind, and closed the door. Signora 
Mequinez tried very hard to lead Marco to another 



room, but it was impossible ; he looked as though he 
was rooted to the spot. 

“What is it?” he asked. “What is the matter with 
my mother, and what are they doing to her?” 

And then Mequinez said softly, still trying to draw 
him away: “Come over here; listen, and I will tell 


302 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


you. I will tell you now. Your mother is ill; she 
must undergo a little operation; I will tell you all if 
you will only come here.” 

“No,” replied the lad,, resisting; “I want to stay 
here, so please tell me all about it.” 

The engineer told him all as he drew him away, and 
the boy began to grow terrified and to tremble. 

Suddenly a piercing cry, like that of one wounded to 
death, echoed through the whole house. 

The boy gazed at him for a moment, and then fell 
at his feet, sobbing, “Thanks, doctor.” 

But the doctor picked him up, saying; 

“Rise! It is you, you brave child, who have saved 
your mother?” 


SUMMER 

Wednesday, the 24th. 

Marco, the Genoese boy, is the last little hero ; but 
one more after this will be left for the month of June. 
There are only two more monthly examinations, 
twenty-six more days to attend school, six Thursdays 
and five Sundays. 

The end of the year is already perceptible. The 
trees of the garden, leafy and in blossom, cast a fine 
shade on the gymnastic apparatus. The scholars are 
wearing their summer clothes. It is most pleasing at 
the close of school and the exit of the classes to realize 
how different everything is from what it was in the 
months that are past. The long locks whith touched 
the shoulders have disappeared; all wear their hair 
cut short; bare legs and throats are to be seen; little 
straw hats of every shape, with ribbons that hang 


MAY 


303 


down their backs, shirts and neckties of all colors. 
The small children dress generally in red or blue, a 
lining, a border, a tassel, a scrap of some bright color 
tacked on somewhere by the mother, so that even the 
poorest may look fine. Quite a number go to school 
without .any hats, as though they had run away from 
home. Some wear the white gymnasium suit. There 
is one boy in teacher Delcati’s class who dresses in 
red from head to foot, like a boiled crab. A good 
many dress in sailor suits. 

I think the cutest of all is the little mason, who 
wears a big straw hat, which makes him look like a 
half-candle with a shade over it ; and it is comical to 
see him make his hare’s face beneath it. Coretti does 
not wear his catskin cap now, but has an old traveling 
cap of gray silk instead. Votini’s suit is of Scotch 
pattern, and always made a dandyish appearance. 
Crossi displays his bare breast ; Precossi is lost inside 
of a blue blouse belonging to the blacksmith iron- 
monger. 

Garoffi, who was obliged to discard the cloak 
beneath which he concealed his trinkets, all his pock- 
ets are visible, bulging with all sorts of huckster’s 
trifles, and the lists of his lotteries force themselves 
out. Now every one can see what his pockets contain, 
such as fans made of half a newspaper, knobs of canes, 
darts to fire at birds, herbs, and May bugs which creep 
out of his pockets and crawl all over the jacket. 

Many of the little fellows carry bunches of flowers 
to the teachers. The teachers are dressed in summer 
dresses of all pretty colors; all except the “little 
nun, ' ’ who is always in black, and the teacher with the 
red feather has not discarded it, and a knot of red rib- 
bon at her neck, crushed from the little hands of the 


304 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


children, who always make her laugh and then run 
away. 

It is just the time of the year for cherry trees, for 
butterflies, for music in the streets, and for rambles in 
the country; many of the fourth grade run away to 
bathe in the Po. All have their hearts already set on 
the vacation; each day they issue forth from school 
more impatient and happy than the day before. 
Only I am sorry to see Garrone in mourning, also my 
poor mistress of the primary, who is thinner and 
whiter than ever, and who coughs with more violence 
every day. She walks all bent over now, and salutes 
me so sadly! 


POETRY 


Friday, the 26th. 

You are now commencing to understand the poetry 
of school, Enrico; but at present you only see the 
inside of school. It will appear much more beautiful 
and poetic to you thirty years from now, when you 
go there to accompany your own boys ; and you will 
then appreciate it as much as I do. While waiting for 
school to close I linger about the silent street, near the 
building, and put my ear to the windows of the ground 
floor, which are screened by Venetian blinds. At one 
window I hear the voice of a teacher saying: 

“Ah, what art! This won’t do, my dear boy! What 
would your father say?’’ 

At the next window there resounds the deep voice 
of a teacher, which is saying: 

“I will buy fifty metres of cloth material at about 
eighty-eight cents a metre — and sell it again ’ ’ 


MAY 


305 

Further on there is the teacher with the red feather, 
who is reading loudly : 

“Then Pietro Micca, with the lighted fuse “ 

From the next class-room comes the twittering of a 
thousand birds ; this means that the teacher has 
stepped out for a while. I proceed forward, and as I 
turn the corner I hear a scholar weeping, and the voice 
of the teacher reproving and comforting him. 

From the high windows issue verses, names of great 
and good men, fragments of sentences which inculcate 
virtue, patriotism and courage. Then follow moments 
of silence, and it seems as though the edifice is empty, 
and it does not seem possible that there should be 
seven hundred boys within ; noisy outbursts of hilarity 
become audible, provoked by the jest of a teacher in a 
good humor. And the passers-by halt, and all throw 
a glance of sympathy towards that dear building, 
which contains so much youth and so many hopes. 
Then a sudden dull sound is heard, a clapping of 
books and portfolios, a shuffling of feet, a whispering 
which spread from room to room, and from the lower 
to the higher, as at the sudden diffusion of a bit of 
good news; it is the janitor who is making his rounds 
announcing that school is over for the day, and at 
that sound a throng of women, men, girls and youths 
press closer from all sides of the door, waiting for their 
sons, brothers, or grandchildren ; while from the doors 
of the class-rooms little boys shoot forth into the big 
hall, as from a spout, grab their little capes and hats, 
creating a great confusion with them on the floor, and 
moving all about, until the beadle chases them in 
again one after the other. 

And finally they come forth, in long lines stamping 
their feet. And then all the relatives begin to ask the 


3o6 


A BOY'S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


usual shower of questions: “Did you know your les- 
son? What mark has he given you for your work? 
What have to you do for to-morrow? When has the 
monthly examination been set for?” And even the 
poor mothers who do not know how to read open the 
copy-books, gaze at the problems, and ask about the 
marks. “Only eight? Ten with commendation? 
Nine for the lesson?” 

And they grow uneasy and rejoice and question the 
teachers and talk about programs and examinations. 
How beautiful all this is, and how great and how 
immense a promise it is for the world! 


THE DEAF MUTE 

Sunday, the 28th. 

The month of May could not have had a better end- 
ing than my visit of this morning. We heard a jingling 
of the bell, and all ran to see who was at the door. 
I heard my father say with astonishment : 

“You here, Giorgia?” 

Giorgio was our gardener in Chieri. At present his 
family is in Condore. He had just arrived from 
Genoa, where he had landed on the preceding day, on 
his return from Greece. He has been working on the 
Grecian railways for the last three years. He carried 
a big bundle in his arms. He has grown a little older, 
but his face is yet red and jolly. 

My father wished to have him enter; but he 
declined, and suddenly inquired, assuming a serious 
countenance: “How is my family? How is Gigia?” 

“She was well a few days ago,” replied my mother. 

Giorgie sighed deeply. “Oh, Lord be praised! I 


MAY 


307 


had not the courage to present myself at the Deaf- 
mute Institution until I had heard about her. I will 
leave my bundle here, and run to get her. It is three 
years since I have seen my poor little daughter also 
three years since I have seen any of my folks!’’ 

My father said to me, “Go with him.’’ 

“Excuse me; another word,’’ said the gardener 
from the landing. 

My father interrupted him. “And your affairs?’’ 

‘ ‘ All right, ’ ’ the other replied. ‘ ‘ Thank God, I have 
brought back a few cents. But I wanted to inquire. 
Tell me how the education of the little dumb girl is 
getting on. When I left her she was like a little ani- 
mal, poor thing! I don’t think much of those colleges. 
Has she learned how to make signs? My wife wrote 
me to be sure ‘she is learning to speak; she is pro- 
gressing.’ But I said to myself, ‘What is the use of 
her learning to talk if I don’t know how to make the 
signs myself. How can we understand each other, 
poor little thing? That is well enough for them to 
understand each other, one unfortunate to comprehend 
another unfortunate.’ How is she, then? How is 
she?’’ 

My father smiled and replied : 

“I won’t tell you anything about it; you will see; 
go^ go! don’t waste another minute!’’ 

We went out; the institute is close by. 

As we went along taking long strides, the gardener 
talked to me and grew sad. 

“Ah, my poor Gigia! To be born with such a mis- 
fortune ! To think that I had never heard her call me 
father ; that she has never heard me call her daughter ; 
that she has never either heard or uttered a single 
word since she has been on earth! And it is lucky 


3o8 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


that a charitable gentleman was found to provide for 
the expenses of the institution. But anyway — she 
could not enter there until she was eight years old. 
She has not been at home for three years. She is now 
going on eleven. And has she grown? Tell me, has 
she grown? Is she in good humor?” 

‘‘You will soon see, you will soon see!” I replied, 
hastening my pace. 

‘‘But where is this institution?” he demanded. ‘‘My 
wife took her there after I was gone. It seems to me 
that it ought to be near here.” 

We had just reached it. We at once entered the 
parlor. A custodian came to meet us. 

“I am the father of Gigia Voggi,” said the gardener; 
“let me see my daughter instantly.” 

“They are at play,” replied the attendant; “I will 
go and inform the teacher.” And he hastened away. 

The gardener could no longer speak nor stand still ; 
he stared at all four walls, without seeing anything. 

The door opened; a teacher entered, dressed in 
black, holding a little girl by the hand. 

Father and daughter gazed at one another for a 
moment, then flew into each other’s arms, uttering a 
cry. 

The girl was dressed in a white and reddish striped 
material, with a white apron. She is taller than I 
am. She cried, and clung to her father’s neck with 
both arms. 

Her father disengaged himself, and looked at her 
closely from head to foot, with tears in his eyes, out of 
breath, as though he had run a long way; and he 
exclaimed: “Ah, how she has grown! How nice she 
has become! Oh, my dear, my poor Gigia! My poor 
mute child! — Are you her teacher, madam? Tell her 


MAY 


309 

to make some of her signs to me; for I may be able 
to understand something with gestures.” 

The teacher smiled and said in a low voice to the 
girl: “Who is this man who has come to see you?” 

And the girl replied in a coarse, strange, dissonant 
voice, like that of a savage who was speaking for the 
first time in our language, but smilingly and with a 
distinct pronunciation, “He is my fa-ther.” 

The gardener fell backwards a pace, and yelled like 
a madman: “She speaks! but is it possible ! But is it 
possible! She speaks? But do you speak, my child, 
do you speak? Tell me, do you speak?” And again 
he embraced her and kissed her thrice' on the brow. 
“But is it not with signs that they talk, madam; is it 
not with her fingers, so? What is all this? What does 
this mean?” 

“No, Mr. Voggi,” rejoined the teacher, “it is not 
with signs. That was the old way. Here we teach 
the new method, the oral method. Did you not 
know it?” 

“I knew nothing about it!” replied the gardener, in 
amazement. “I have been away for the last three 
years. Or perhaps they wrote it to me, and I did not 
understand. I am a blockhead, I am. Oh, my 
daughter, you understand me, then? Do you hear my 
voice? Answer me; do you hear me? Do you hear 
what I am telling you?” 

“Why, no, good man,” said the teacher; “she does 
not hear the voice, because she is deaf. She under- 
stands from the movements of your lips the words that 
you utter; this is the way the thing is managed; but 
she does not hear your voice nor the words which she 
speaks to you; she pronounces them, because we have 
taught her, letter by letter, how she has to place her 


310 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


lips and move her tongue, and what effort she has to 
make with her chest and throat, in order to emit a 
sound. ’ ’ 

The gardener did not understand, and stood with his 
mouth wide open. He did not yet believe it. 

“Tell me, Gigia,” he asked his daughter, whisper- 
ing in. her ear, “are you glad that your father has 
returned?” and as he raised his face again he stood 
awaiting her reply. 

The girl looked at him thoughtfully, and said noth- 
ing. 

Her father was perturbed. 

The teacher laughed. Then she said: “Good man, 
she does not answer you, because she did not see the 
movements of your lips: you spoke in her ear! 
Repeat your question, keeping your face well before 
hers. ’ ’ 

The father, looking straight in her face, repeated, 
“Are you glad that your father has returned? that he 
is not going away any more?” 

The girl, who had watched the movement of his lips 
attentively, seeking even to see inside his mouth, 
replied frankly: 

“Yes, I am de-light-ed that you have re-turned, that 
you are not go-ing a- way a-ny mo-re. ’ ’ 

Her father embraced her tightly, and then in great 
haste, in order to make quite sure, he put question 
after question to her. 

“What is mamma’s name?” 

“An-to-nia,” 

“What is the name of your little sister?” 

“Ad-e-laide. ” 

“What is the name of this college?” 

“The Deaf-mute Insti-tution. ” 


MAY 


311 


“How many are two times ten?” 

“Twen-ty.” 

While we thought that he was laughing for joy, he 
suddenly burst out crying; but this was over-joy. 

“Take courage,” said the teacher to him; “you have 
reason to rejoice, not to weep. You see that you are 
making your daughter cry also. You are pleased, 
then?” 

The gardener grasped the teacher’s hand and kissed 
it two or three times, saying: “Thanks, thanks, 
thanks! a hundred thanks, a thousand thanks, dear 
madam! and pardon me for not being able to say 
more ! ’ ’ 

“But she not only speaks,” said the teacher; “your 
daughter also knows how to write. She knows how 
to count. She knows the names of all common objects. 
She knows a little history and geography. She is now 
in the regular class. When she has passed through 
the two remaining classes, she will know much more 
— far more. When she leaves here she will be able to 
adopt a profession. We already have deaf-mutes who 
stand in the shops to wait oh customers, and they per- 
form their duties like any one else.” 

Again the gardener was astounded. It seemed as 
though his ideas were becoming confused again. He 
stared at his daughter and scratched his head. His 
face again became bewildered. 

Then the teacher turned to the attendant and said 
to him : 

“Bring in a child of the preparatory class for 

.TV » > 

me. 

The attendant returned, in a short time, with a 
deaf-mute of eight or nine years, who had just entered 
the institution a few days before. 


312 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


“This girl,” said the teacher, “is one of those whom 
we are teaching in. the first elements. This is the way 
it is done. I want to make her say a. Watch.’’ 

The teacher opened her mouth, as one opens it to 
pronounce the vowel a, and motioned to the child to 
open her mouth in the same manner. Then the 
teacher made her a sign to emit her voice. She did 
so ; but instead of a, she pronounced o. 

“No,” said the teacher, “that is not right.’’ And 
taking the child’s two hands, she placed one of them 
on her own throat and the other on her chest, and 
repeated, “a.” 

The child felt with her hands the movements of the 
teacher’s throat and chest, opened her mouth again as 
before, and pronounced extremely well, “a.’’ 

In the same manner, the teacher had her pronounce 
c and d, still keeping the two little hands on her own 
throat and chest. 

“Do you understand now?” she inquired. 

The father understood ; but he seemed more aston- 
ished than when he had not understood. 

“And they are taught to speak in the same way?’’ 
he asked, after a moment of hesitation, gazing at the 
teacher. “You have the patience to teach them to 
speak in that manner, little by little, and so many of 
them? one by one — through years and years? But 
you are saints; that’s what you are! You are angels 
of heaven ! There is not in the world a reward that is 
worthy of you! What is there that lean say? Ah! 
leave me alone with my daughter a little while now. 
Let me have her to myself for five minutes. ’ ’ 

And drawing her to a seat apart he began to ques- 
tion her, and she to reply, and he laughed with beam- 
ing eyes, slapping his fists down on his knees; and he 


MAY 


313 

took his daughter’s hands, and stared at her, overjoyed 
at hearing her, as though her voice had been one 
which came from heaven ; then he asked the teacher, 
“Would the principal allow me to thank him?” 

“The principal is not here,” replied the mistress; 
“but there is another person whom you should thank. 
Every little girl here is given into the charge of an 
older companion, who is the same as a mother or sis- 



ter to her. Your little girl has been put under the 
care of a deaf-mute of seventeen, the daughter of a 
baker, who is kind and very fond of her ; she has been 
assisting her for two years to dress herself every 
morning; she combs her hair, teaches her to sew, 
mends her clothes, and is good company for her. — 
Gigia, what is the name of your mamma in the insti- 
tute?” 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


3M 

The girl smiled, and said, “Ca-te-rina Gior-dano. 
She is very, very good to me, father.” 

The attendant, who had withdrawn at a signal from 
the teacher, came back in a minute with a light-haired 
deaf-mute, a strong girl, with a happy face, and also 
dressed in the red and white striped goods, with a gpray 
apron ; she paused at the door and blushed ; then she 
bent her head with a smile. She had the figure of a 
woman, but seemed like a child. 

Giorgio’s daughter instantly ran to her, took her by 
the arm, like a child, and drew her to her father, say- 
ing, in her heavy voice, ‘‘Ca-te-rina Gior-dano.” 

‘‘Ah, what a fine girl!” exclaimed her father; and 
he put out one hand to caress her, but drew it back 
again and repeated, “Ah, what a good girl! May 
God bless her, may he grant her all good fortune, 
all happiness, so good a girl is she, my poor Gigia! 
It is an honest workingman, the poor father of a 
family, who gives you these wishes, with all his 
heart.” 

The big girl petted the little one, still keeping her 
face bent, and smiling, and the gardener continued to 
look at her, as at a madonna. 

“You can take your daughter with you for the day,” 
said the teacher. 

“To be sure I will take her,” rejoined the gardener. 
“I’ll take her to Condore, and bring her back to-mor- 
row morning. ’ ’ 

The girl ran off to get ready. 

“It is three years since I have seen her!” repeated 
the gardener. “Now she speaks! I will take her to 
Condore with me at once. But first I shall take a little 
trip about Turin, with my deaf-mute on my arm, so 
that all may see her, and take her to see some of my 


MAY 


315 


friends ! Ah, what a grand day ! This is consolation 
indeed! — Take your father’s arm, my Gigia. ” 

The girl soon came back with a little cape and cap 
on, and took her father’s arm. 

“And thanks to all!” said the father, as he started 
for the door “Thanks to all, with all my soul. I 
shall return once more to thank you all again." 

He remained a moment absorbed in thought, then 
disengaged him- 
self abruptly from 
the girl, turned 
' back, fumbling in 
his waistcoat with 
his hands, and 
shouted like a man 
in a fury: 

“Well, I am a 
poor devil, but 
here — I leave 
twenty lire for the 
institution — a fine 
new gold piece." 

And with a 
heavy thump he 
deposited his gold 
piece on the small 
table. 

“No, no, good man," said the teacher, affected. 
“Take back your money. I cannot accept it. Take 
it back. It is not my place. You shall see about that 
when the director is here. But he will not accept any- 
thing either; be sure of that. You have worked too 
hard to earn it, poor man. We shall be grateful to 
you, all the same. 



A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


316 

“No; I shall leave it,’’ replied the gardener, obstin- 
ately; “and then — we will see.’’ 

But the teacher put the money back in his pocket, 
without leaving him time to reject it. And then he 
resigned himself with a shake of the head ; and then, 
kissing his hand to the teacher and to the large girl, he 
hastily took his daughter’s arm again, and hurried 
with her out of the door, saying: 

“Come, come, my daughter, my poor dumb child, 
my treasure!’’ 

And the girl exclaimed, in her coarse voice : 

“Oh, how lo-ve-ly the sun is to-day!’’ 


JUNE 


GARIBALDI 

Saturday, the 3d. 

This is a day of national mourning. Garibaldi 
passed away last night. Do you know who he is? He 
is the man who freed ten millions of Italians from the 
tyranny of the Bourbons. He was seventy-five years 
of age when he died. Nice was his birthplace, and 
his father was a ship captain. When he was eight 
years old, he saved a woman’s life; at thirteen, he 
dragged into safety a boatload of his companions who 
were shipwrecked; at twenty-seven, he rescued from 
the water at Marseilles a drowning youth ; at forty- 
one, he saved a ship from burning on the ocean. He 
fought for ten years in America for the freedom of a 
people foreign to him ; he fought in three wars against 
the Austrians, for the liberation of Lombardy and 
Trentino; he defended Rome from the French in 
1849; he delivered Naples and Palermo in i860; he 
fought again for Rome in 1867; he combated against 
the Germans in defense of France in 1870. He was 
possessed of the flame of heroism and the genius of 
war. He was engaged in forty battles, and won 
thirty-seven of them. 

When he was not in battle, he was doing hard labor 
for his living, or he exiled himself in a solitary island, 
and cultivated the soil. He was teacher, sailor, work- 
man, trader, soldier, general, dictator, also simple, 
great and good. He hated all oppressors, loved all 

317 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


318 

people, protected the weak; he had no other desire 
than good, refused honors, scorned death, adored 
Italy. When he uttered the war cry men hastened to 
him from all quarters ; the wealthy left their palaces, 
workmen their shops, youths their* schools, to go and 
fight under the triumph of his victory. In time of war 
he wore a red shirt. He was strong, blonde, and 
handsome. On the field of battle he was a thunder- 
bolt, in his affections he was a child, in grief a saint. 
Thousands of Italians have died for their country, con- 
tented, when dying ; they saw him in the distance vic- 
torious; thousands would have allowed themselves to 
be killed for him ; millions have showered blessings 
on him and the blessings will continue forever. 

He is dead, and the whole world mourns the loss. 
You do not understand him now. But you will read 
of his deeds, you will constantly hear him spoken of in 
the course of your life ; and as the years go by, his 
image will grow before you; when you become a man, 
you will believe him a giant; and when you have 
passed into the other world, when your grand-children 
and those who shall be born from them are no longer 
among the living, the generations will still behold on 
high his luminous head as a redeemer of the people, 
crowned by the names of his victories, shaped like a 
circle of stars; and the forehead and soul of every 
Italian will beam when he utters his name. 

THE ARMY 


Sunday, the nth. 

The National Festival Day, postponed for a week 
on account of the death of Garibaldi. 

We have been to the Piazza Gastello, to see the 


JUNE 


319 


review of soldiers, who marched in front of the com- 
mandant of the army corps, between two vast lines of 
people. As they marched past to the time of music, 
my father pointed out to me the corps and the glories 
of the banners. The pupils of the Academy headed 
the parade, those who will become officers in the 
engineers and the artillery, about three hundred in 
number, dressed in black, passed with the forward 
and easy air of students and soldiers. After them 
passed the infantry, the brigade of Aosta, which 
fought at Goito and at San Martino, and the Bergamo 
brigade, which fought at Castelfidardo, four regiments 
of them, companies after compa,nies, thousands of red 
pompons, which seemed like so many double and very 
long garlands of blood-colored flowers, extended and 
waved in the wind from the two ends, and shown 
above the crowd. After the infantry, the soldiers of 
the Mining Corps advanced, — the workingmen of war, 
with their plumes of black horse-tails, and their 
bright red stripes ; and while these were going by, we 
beheld advancing behind them hundreds of long, 
straight plumes, which rose above the heads of the 
lookers-on ; they were the mountaineers, the defenders 
of the portals of Italy. These soldiers were tall, 
healthy and stalwart, with hats of Calabrian style, and 
revers of a bright green, the color of the grass on 
their native mountains. The mountaineers were still 
* marching past, when a quiver ran through the crowd, 
and the bersaglieri, the old twelfth battalion, the first 
who entered Rome through the historical Porta Via, 
brown, brisk, with waving plumes, passed like a wave 
in a sea of black, making the square ring with the 
shrill blasts of their trumpets, which seemed shouts of 
joy. But the sound of the trumpets was drowned by 


320 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


a broken and hollow rumble, which announced the 
field artillery; and then the latter passed amid great 
cheering, seated on their high caissons, drawn by 
three hundred pairs of spirited horses, — those fine sol- 
diers with yellow lacings, and their long cannons of 
brass, and steel shining on the light carriages, as they 
tossed and made a fearful noise which made the earth 
tremble. And then came the mountain artillery, slowly, 
beautiful in its hard and rude semblance, with its pow- 
erful soldiers and strong-looking mules — that mountain 
artillery which carries fear and death as high as the 
foot of man can climb. The last in the parade was 
the fine Genoa cavalry, which had thundered upon the 
battlefields, from Santa Lucia to Villafranca, which 
passed at a gallop, with their helmets sparkling in the 
sun, their lances erect, their flags waving in the air, 
glittering with gold and silver, filling the 'air with 
tinkling and neighing. 

“How beautiful it is!’’ I exclaimed. My father 
almost reproved me for these words, and said to 
me: 

“You are not to imagine the army as a fine spec- 
tacle, for these young men, so full of strength and 
hope, may be called upon any day to fight for our 
country, and die in a few minutes, crushed to pieces 
by bullets and grape-shot. Every time that you hear 
the cry, “Three cheers for the army! hurrah for 
Italy!’’ picture to yourself, behind the regiments 
which are passing, a plain covered with corpses and 
blood, and the cheers will come from the very bottom 
of your heart and Italy will appear to you more severe 
and grand. ’’ 


JUNE • 


321 


ITALY 

Tuesday, the 13th. 

Pay respects to your country thus, on days of festi- 
val: “Italy, my country, dear and noble land, where 
my father and mother were born, and where they will 
be buried, where I hope to live and die, where my 
children will grow up and die ; beautiful Italy, great 
and glorious for many centuries, united and free for a 
few years, you who have spread so great a light of 
intellect divine over the world and for whom so many 
brave men have died on the battlefield, and so many 
heroes on the gallows ; august mother of three hun- 
dred cities, and thirty millions of sons ; I, a child, who 
do not understand you yet, and who do not know you 
in all your good qualities, I honor and love you with 
all my soul, and I am proud of having been born of 
you and of calling myself your son. I love your splen- 
did seas, and beautiful and high mountains; I love 
your stately monuments and eternal memories ; I love 
your glory and beauty ; I love and venerate the whole 
of you as that beloved portion where I, for the first 
time, beheld the light and heard your name. I love 
the whole of Italy, with a single affection and with 
equal gratitude, — valiant Turin, superb Genoa, 
learned Bologna, enchanting Venice, mighty Milan; I 
love you with the uniform reverence of a son, gentle 
Florence and terrible Palermo, great and beautiful 
Naples, wonderful and eternal Rome. I love thee, my 
sacred country ! And I swear that I will love all thy 
sons as brothers ; that I will ever honor in my heart 
the great men, living and dead; that I will be an 
industrious and honest citizen, constantly trying to 


322 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


make myself more noble, in order to render myself 
worthy of you, in causing misery, ignorance, crime, 
injustice to disappear one day from your face, so that 
you may live and expand quietly in the majesty of 
your right and of your strength. I swear that I will 
serve you, as it may be granted to me, with my mind, 
with my arm, with my heart, humbly, ardently; and 
that, if some day I should be called on to give my 
blood and life, I will give my blood and will die, cry- 
ing thy holy name to heaven, and throwing my last 
kiss to our blessed flag.” 


THIRTY-TWO DEGREES 

Friday, the i6th. 

During the five days which have passed since the 
National Festival, the heat has increased by three 
degrees. This is the middle of summer, and we all 
begin to feel weary ; and have lost our fine rosy color 
of springtime ; necks and legs are growing thin, heads 
droop and eyes close. Poor Nelli cannot stand the 
heat at all, his face has turned to a waxy hue, he some- 
times falls into a sound sleep, with his head on his 
copy-book; but Garrone is as cunning as a fox; he 
places an open book upright in front of him, so that 
the teacher may not see him. Crossi rests his red 
head against the bench in a peculiar way, so that it 
looks as if it had been detached from his body and 
placed there separately. Nobis complains that there 
are too many of us, and that we corrupt the air. Ah, 
what an effort it costs now to study! Through the 
windows I see beautiful trees which make the streets 
so cool and shady, where I should be so glad to run, 


JUNE 


323 


but sadness and anger overtake me at being obliged to 
go and shut myself up among the benches. But, when 
I see my good mother, who is always watching me 
when I return from school, to see whether I am not 
pale, courage comes back to me ; even at every page 

of my work she says to 



Yes, mother is perfectly right to call to my mind the 
boys who are working in the fields in the full heat of 
the sun, or among the white sands of the river, which 
blind and burn them, and of those in the glass fac- 
tories, who stand all day in one position, with head 
bent over a flame of gas ; and all of them rise earlier 


324 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


than we do, and there is no vacation for them. Cour- 
age, then! And even in this respect Derossi is at the 
head of all, for neither heat nor drowsiness bothers 
him ; he is always wide awake, and content, with his 
golden curls, as he was in the winter, and it is no 
effort for him to study, and keeps all about him happy, 
as though he freshened the air with his voice. 

And there are two others who are always awake and 
attentive; stubborn Stardi, who pinches his face to 
keep himself from going to sleep ; and the more weary 
and heated he is, the more he sets his teeth and opens 
his eyes so wide that it seems as though he wanted to 
eat the teacher; and that barterer of a Garoffi, who 
does nothing but manufacture fans out of red paper, 
ornamented with little figures from match-boxes, 
which he sells at two centesimi apiece. 

But the bravest of all is poor Coretti, who gets up 
at five o’clock, to help his father carry wood, and at 
eleven, in school, he can no longer keep his eyes open, 
and he droops his head on his breast. He tries to 
keep himself awake by slapping himself on the neck 
or he asks permission to go out and wash his face, and 
makes his neighbors shake and pinch him. But this 
morning he could not resist, and fell into a heavy 
sleep. The teacher called him loudly, “Coretti!” He 
did not hear. The teacher repeated, “Coretti!” 
Finally the son of the charcoal man, who lives next 
door to Coretti, rose and said: “He worked from five 
until seven carrying faggots.’’ The teacher allowed 
him to sleep on, and continued with the lesson for half 
an hour. Then he went to Coretti’s seat, and wak- 
ened him very, very gently, by blowing in his face. 
When he saw the teacher in front of him, he became 
frightened, but the teacher kissed him on the hair and 


JUNE 


325 

said, “I am not scolding you, for your sleep is that of 
fatigue, not of laziness.” ' 


MY FATHER 

Saturday, the 17th. 

I am sure neither your schoolmate Coretti nor Gar- 
rone would ever have answered their fathers as you 
answered yours this afternoon, Enrico! How is it 
possible? You must promise me solemnly that this 
shall never happen again so long as I live. Every 
time that a saucy answer comes to your lips at a 
reprimand from your father, think of that day which 
will surely come, when he will call you to his bedside 
to tell you, “Enrico, I am about to leave you.” Oh, 
my boy, when you hear his voice for the last time, and 
for a long time afterwards, when you weep alone in 
his lonely room, surrounded by those books which he 
will never open again, then, on recalling how often 
you were impertinent to him, you too will ask your- 
self, “How is it possible?” You will fully understand 
that he has always been your best friend, that when 
he was forced to punish ^you, it caused him more 
suffering than it did you, and that he never made you 
shed a tear except for the sake of doing you good; and 
then you will feel sorry, you will kiss with tears that 
desk at which he worked so much, at which he wore 
out his life for his children. You do not understand 
now ; he hides from you all of himself except his kind- 
ness and his love. You never realize that he is some- 
times so broken down with hard work, that he thinks 
that he will only last a few more days, and in such 
moments he talks only of you. In his heart he has no 


326 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


other trouble than that of leaving you poor and with- 
out a home. 

And how often, when thinking about this, does he 
enter your chamber while you are asleep and stand 
with the lamp in hand looking at you, and then he 
makes an effort, and weary and sad as he is, he returns 
to his labor; and another thing you do not know is 
that he often seeks you and remains with you because 
he has a bitterness in his heart, sorrows which come 
to all men in the world, and he goes to you as a friend 
to get comfort and forgetfulness, and he feels the 
necessity of taking refuge in your affection, to cover 
his serenity and his courage. Reflect, then, what 
must be his sorrow when he finds you cold and disre- 
spectful, instead of affectionate. Never again stain 
yourself with this ungratefulness ! Reflect, that were 
you as good as a saint you could never repay him 
sufficiently for what he has done and for what he is 
constantly doing for you. And think also that we can- 
not count on life ; a misfortune might take away your 
father while you are still a boy, — in two years, in 
three months, to-morrow. 

Ah! my poor Enrico, when you see everything 
around you changing, how empty, how desolate the 
house will appear, with your poor mother dressed in* 
black ! Go, my son, go to your father ; he is in his 
room at work ; go on tiptoe, so that he may not hear 
you enter ; go, and ^y your forehead on his knees, and 
plead him to pardon and to bless you. 

IN THE COUNTRY 

Monday, the 19th. 

Even this time my father forgave me and gave me 
permission to go on a tour around the country, which 


JUNE 


327 


had been arranged on Wednesday, with Coretti’s 
father, the wood peddler. 

We all needed a mouthful of hill air. It was a holi- 
day for us. At two o’clock yesterday we met in the 
Statute. Derossi, Garrone, Garoffi, Precossi, Coretti, 
father and son, and I, with our baskets containing 
fruit, sausages, and hard- 
boiled eggs ; we had also 
leather bottles and and tin 
cups. Garrone carried a 
gourd full of white wine; 

Coretti, his father’s soldier 
canteen, filled with red wine ; 
and little Precossi, wearing 
his blacksmith’s blouse, car- 
ried under his arm a two- 
kilogramme loaf. 

We went in the omnibus as 
far as Gran Madre di Dio, 
and then off, as quickly as 
possible, to the hills 

How green, shady and 
fresh it was! We turned 
somersaults in the grass, 
dipped our faces in the rivu- 
lets, and jumped over the 

hedges. Coretti’s father followed us at a distance, 
with his jacket thrown over his shoulders, smoking 
his clay pipe, and every now and then he raised his 
hand and threatened us, to prevent our tearing holes 
in our trousers. 

Precossi whistled; I had never heard him whistle 
before. Young Coretti did the same as he went 
along. That little fellow knows how to make every- 



328 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


thing with his jackknife a finger’s length long, — mill- 
wheels, forks, squirts ; and he insisted on carrying the 
other boys] things, and he was loaded down until he 
was dripping with perspiration, but he was still as 
lively as a goat. Derossi stopped every few minutes 
to tell us the names of the plants and insects. I don’t 
see how he manages to know so many things. And 
Garrone chewed at his bread silently; but he no 
longer bites it with the cheerfulness of old. Poor 
Garrone! now that he has lost his mother. But he is 
always as good as honey. When one of us ran back to 
obtain a good start in order to leap, he ran to the other 
side, and held out his hands to us; and as Precossi was 
afraid of cows, having been tossed by one when a. 
child, Garrone put himself before him every time that 
we passed one. We went up to Santa Margherita, 
and then descended the decline by leaps, rulls, and 
slides. Precossi tumbled into a thorn-bush, and tore 
a hole in his blouse, and stood there filled with shame, 
with the strip hanging; but Garoffi, who always has 
pins in his jacket, fixed it so that it would not be 
seen, while the other kept repeating, “Excuse me, 
excuse me,” and then he began to run once more. 

Garoffi did not lose time on the way, but picked 
salad herbs and snails, and put every shiny stone into 
his pocket, believing that there were gold or silver in 
it. And on we went, running, rolling, climbing, 
through the shade and in the sun, up and down, 
through all the lanes and by-roads, until we arrived 
all disordered and out of breath, at the top of a hill, 
where we seated ourselves to eat our lunch on the 
grass. 

We perceived an immense plain, and the blue Alps 
with their white summits. We were dying of hunger; 


JUNE 


329 


the bread seemed to be melting away. Coretti’s father 
handed us each our share of sausage on pumpkin 
leaves. And then we all began to talk about the 
teacher, the comrades who had not been able to come, 
and the examinations. Precossi was rather ashamed 
to eat, and Garrone thrust the best pieces of his por- 
tion into his mouth by force. Coretti sat next to his 
father, with his legs crossed; they seem more like two 
brothers than father and sou, when thus seen together, 
both rosy and smiling, displaying their white teeth. 
The father drank heartily, emptying the bottles and 
cups which we had left half finished, and said : 

“Wine is not good for you boys who are studying; it 
is the wood-sellers who need it.” Then grasping his 
son by the nose, he shook him, and said to us, “Boys, 
you must love this fellow, for he is a flower of a man 
of honor; I assure you so myself!” Then we all 
laughed, except Garrone. And he went on, still 
drinking, “It’s too bad, eh! now you are all good 
friends tpgether, and, who can tell, in a few years, 
Enrico and Derossi will be either lawyers or professors 
or I don’t know what, and the other four of you will 
be in shops or at a trade, and the deuce knows where, 
and then — good-night, comrades!” 

“Not at all!” rejoined Derossi; “for me, Garrone 
will always be Garrone, Precossi will always be Pre- 
cossi, and the same with all the others, were I to 
become the czar of Russia; where they are, there I 
sh all go also. ’ ’ 

“Bless you!” exclaimed Coretti’s father, raising his 
flask; “that’s the way to talk, by heavens! Touch 
your glass here! Hurrah for brave comrades, and 
hurrah also for the school, which makes one family of 
you, the rich and poor together!” 


330 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


We all clinked his flask with the bottles and cups, 
and drank for the last time. 

“Three cheers for the fourth of the forty-ninth!” he 
cried, as he rose to his feet, swallowing the last drop; 
“and if you also have to deal with squadrons, remem- 
ber to stand firm, like us old ones, my lads!” 

It was already late. We descended, running and 
singing, and walking long distances all arm in arm. 



and we arrived at the Po as dusk fell, and thousands 
of fireflies were flitting about. And in the Statuto 
square we parted after having agreed to meet there on 
the following Sunday, and go to the Victor Emanuel 
to see the distribution of prizes to the graduates of the 
evening schools. 

What a glorious day! I would have been far hap- 
pier, had I not encountered, on my way home, my poor 



HK SLEI’T UNDER A TREE 





JUNE 


331 


teacher! She was descending the staircase of our 
house, almost in the dark, and, as soon as she recog- 
nized me, she took both my hands, and whispered in 
my ear, “Farewell, Enrico, remember me!” I 
noticed that she was crying. When I went up I told 
my mother about it. 

“I have just met my^ teacher. ” 

“She was just going to bed,” replied my mother, 
whose eyes were red. Then she added, very sadly, 
looking fixedly at me: “Your poor teacher — is seri- 
ously ill.” 


THE DISTRIBUTION OF PRIZES TO THE 
' WORKINGMEN 

Sunday, the 25th. 

As agreed upon, we all went together to the Theatre 
Victor Emanuel, to see the distribution of prizes to the 
workingmen. The theater was decorated as on the 
14th of March, and crowded, but almost wholly with 
the families of workmen; and the pit was occupied 
with the male and female pupils of the choral singing 
school, who sang a hymn to the soldiers who had died 
in the Crimea. This hymn was so beautiful that, 
when it was finished, all arose, applauded and shouted, 
so they were obliged to repeat it from the beginning. 
And then the prize-winners commenced at once to 
march by the mayor, the prefect, and many others, 
who presented them with books, savings-bank books, 
diplomas, and medals. In a corner of the pit I saw 
the little mason, sitting beside his mother; and in 
another place was the principal; and behind him, the 
red head of my second-grade teacher. 


332 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


The first to defile were the pupils of the evening 
drawing classes, the goldsmiths, engravers, lithograph- 
ers, and also the carpenters and masons ; then those of 
the commercial school, and then those of the Musical 
Lyceum, among whom were several girls, working 
women, all dressed in their holiday dress, who were 
greeted with great applause, and who laughed. Last 
of all came the pupils of the elementary evening 
schools, and then it began to be a beautiful sight. 
They were of all ages, of all trades, and dressed in 
different ways, — gray-haired men, factory boys, big 
black-bearded artisans. The little ones were at their 
ease; the men, a little embarrassed. The people 
applauded the oldest and the youngest, but not one of 
the audience laughed, as they did at our festival ; every 
face was attentive and serious. 

Most of the prize-winners had their wives and chil- 
dren in the pit, and there were little children who, 
when they beheld their father pass across the stage, 
called him at the tops of their voices, and motioned to 
him with their hands, laughing loudly. Peasants and 
janitors from the Buoncompagni School passed. From 
the Cittadella School there was a bootblack whom my 
father knew, and the prefect presented him with a 
diploma. Behind him I saw approaching a man as big 
as a giant, whom I thought I had seen before. It was 
the little mason’s father, who had won the second 
prize. I remembered seeing him in the attic, at the 
bedside of his sick son, and I instantly sought out his 
son in the pit. Poor little mason! he was staring at 
his father with beaming eyes, and to hide his emotion, 
he made his hare’s face. Just then I heard a burst of 
applause, and glancing at the stage, I beheld a little 
chimney-sweep, with a clean face, in his working 


JUNE 333 

clothes, and the mayor was holding him by the hand 
and talking to him. 

After the chimney-sweep came a cook; then one of 
the city sweepers, from the Raineri School, to get a 
prize. I felt I know not what in my heart, — some- 
thing like a great love and a great respect, at the 
thought of how much those prizes had cost all those 
workingmen, fathers of families, full of care; how 
much toil added to their labors, how many hours 
robbed from their sleep, which is so necessary to 
them, and what efforts of intelligences not used to 
study, and of large hands, clumsy with work! 

A factory boy passed, and it was noticeable that he 
had borrowed his father’s jacket for th’e occasion, for 
the sleeves hung down so that he was obliged to turn, 
them back on the stage, in order to receive his prize. 
Many laughed, but were immediately hushed by the 
applause. Next came an old man with a bald head 
and a white beard. Several artillery soldiers passed, 
among whom were those who attend evening school in 
our school-house; then came custom-house guards and 
policemen, among whom were those who guard our 
schools. 

At the close, the pupils of the evening schools again 
sang the hymn to the dead in Crimea, but this time 
with so much impetuosity, with a strength of affection 
which came so directly from the heart, that the audi- 
ence hardly applauded at all, and touched deeply, 
withdrew slowly and noiselessly. 

Presently the whole street was crowded. In front 
of the theater entrance was the chimney-sweep with 
his brize book bound in red, and gathered around him 
were gentlemen talking to him. Many exchanged 
greetings from the opposite side of the street, — work- 


334 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


men, boys, policemen, teachers. My second-grade 
teacher came out in the midst of the crowd between 
two artillerymen. And there were workmen’s wives 
with babies in their arms, who held in their tiny hands 
their father’s diploma, and showed it to the crowd 
with great pride. 

THE DEAD SCHOOL TEACHER 

Tuesday, the 27th. 

While we were at the Victor Emanuel Theatre, my 
poor school-mistress died. She died at. two o’clock, a 
week after she had visited my mother. The principal 
came to the school yesterday morning to announce her 
death, and he said: 

“Those of you who were her pupils know how good 
she was, how she loved her boys ; she was a mother 
to them. Now, she is no more. For a long time a 
terrible malady has been wasting her life. Instead of 
being obliged to work for her living, could she have 
taken care of herself, she would probably be well 
now. At least, her life could have been prolonged for 
several months, if she had taken a leave of absence. 
But she wished to remain among her boys to the very 
last day. On Saturday evening, the 17 th, she bade 
them good-bye with the certainty that she never would 
see them again. She gave them .good advice, kissed 
them all, and went away sobbing. No one will ever 
see her kind face again. Remember her, my boys!’’ 

Little Precossi, who had been a pupil of hers in the 
upper primary, dropped his head on his desk and 
began to cry. 

Yesterday afternoon, at the close of school, we all 
went together to the dead woman’s house, to accom- 



THK FUXKRAL OK OUR I’OOR SCHOOL TEACHER 





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JUNE 


335 


pany her to church. A hearse drawn by two horses 
was in the street, and many people were waiting, and 
conversing in a low voice. There was the principal, 
all the men and lady teachers from our school, and 
from the other school-houses where she had taught in 
past years. Nearly all the little children in her 
classes were there, accompanied by their mothers, who 
carried candles, and also a great number from the 
other classes, and fifty scholars from the Baretti 
School, some with wreaths in their hands, -^nd some 
with bunches of roses. A great many bouquets of 
flowers had already been placed on the hearse, upon 
which was fastened a large wreath of acacia, with an 
inscription in black letters: “To their teacher, from 
the old fourth-grade pupils.” Underneath the large 
wreath was suspended a little one, which the tiny chil- 
dren had brought. Among the crowd were seen many 
servant- women, who had been sent by their mistresses 
with candles ; and there were also two serving-men in 
livery, with lighted torches; and a wealthy gentleman, 
the father of one of the teacher’s pupils, had sent his 
carriage, which was lined with blue satin. All were 
crowded together near the door. Several girls were 
wiping away their tears. 

We waited for a'while, silently. Finally the casket 
was brought out. Some of the little ones commenced 
to cry loudly when the coffin was slid into the hearse, 
and one began to scream, as though he had just then 
realized that his teacher was dead, and such a con- 
vulsive fit of sobbing seized him that they were obliged 
to carry him away. 

The procession slowly formed into line and set out. 
The daughters of the Ritiro della Concezione, dressed 
in green, came first, then the daughters of Maria, in 


336 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


white, with blue ribbons; then the priests; behind the 
hearse came the lady and men teachers, the tiny 
scholars of the upper primary, and all the others ; and, 
at the end of all, the crowd. People came to the win- 
dows and to the doors, and on beholding all those boys 
and the wreath, they said, “It is a school-teacher.” 
Even some of the ladies who accompanied the smallest 
children wept. 

Upon reaching the church, the casket was removed 
from the hearse, and brought to the middle of the 
nave, before the great altar; the teachers laid their 
wreaths on it, the children covered it with flowers, and 
the people all around, with lighted candles in their 
hands, began to chant prayers, in the large and gloomy 
church. Then, when the priest had said the last amen, 
the candles were suddenly extinguished, and all with- 
drew hastily, and the teacher was left alone. 

Poor teacher, who was so kind to me, who was 
always so patient, who had worked for so many years ! 
She has left her little books to her pupils, and also all 
she possessed, — to one an inkstand, another a little 
picture; and two days before her death she- told the 
principal not to allow the smallest children to go to 
her funeral, because she did not wish them to cry. 

She has done good, she has sufrered, she is dead! 
Poor teacher, left alone in that gloomy church! Fare- 
well! Farewell, forever, my kind friend, sad and 
sweet memory of my infancy! 

THANKS 

Wednesday, the 28th. 

My poor teacher wanted to finish her year of school. 
She departed only three days before the end of the 


JUNE 


337 


lessons. The day after to-morrow we go once more to 
the school -room to hear the reading of the monthly 
story, “Shipwreck,” and then it is over. Saturday, 
the I St of July, the examinations commence. And 
then another year, the fourth, is past ! And had my 
teacher lived it would have passed well. 

I reflected over all that I had known on the preced- 
ing October, and it seems to me that I know a great 
deal more ; I have so many new things in my mem- 
ory ; I can speak and write what I think much better 
than I could then; I can also do the sums for many 
grown-up men who know nothing about it, and help 
them in their affairs; and I understand much more; I 
understand nearly everything that 1 read. I am satis- 
fied. But how many people have encouraged me on 
and helped me to learn, some in one way and others 
in another, at home, at school, in the street, — ever)^- 
where I have been and where T have seen anything! 
And now, I thank you all. I thank you first, my good 
teacher, for having been so indulgent and affectionate 
with me. 

Every new thing I learned was hard work for you, 
and of which I now rejoice and feel proud. Derossi, 
my admirable comrade, I thank you for your prompt 
and kind explanations, because you have made me 
understand many of the most difficult things and sur- 
mount all obstacles at examinations ; and demonstrated 
to me how a will of iron succeeds in everything; and 
Garrone, good and generous, make all who associate 
with you kind and generous also; and you too, Pre- 
cossi and Coretti, who have given me an example of 
courage in suffering, and of serenity in toil, I say 
thanks to you. I say thanks to all the rest. But, 
above all, I thank you, my father, you, my first 


33 ^ 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


teacher, my first friend, who has imparted to me so 
many wise counsels, and have taught me so many 
things while you were working for me, always hiding 
your sorrows from me, and trying in every way to 
make study easy, and life beautiful tome; and you, 
sweet mother, my beloved and blessed guardian angel, 
who rejoiced at all my joys, and suffered at all my 
bitternesses, who have studied, worked, and wept with 
me, with one hand caressing my brow, and with the 
other pointing me to heaven. I kneel before you, as 
when I was a little child ; I thank you for all the ten- 
derness which you have instilled into my mind through 
twelve years of sacrifices and of love. 

SHIPWRECK 
(Last Monthly Story) 

Several years ago, one morning in the month of 
December, there sailed from the port of Liverpool a 
large steamer, which had on board over a hundred 
persons, among whom were a crew of seventy. The 
captain and nearly all the sailors were English. 
Among the passengers were several Italians, — three 
gentlemen, a priest, and a company of musicians. 
The steamer was bound for the island of Malta, The 
weather was threatening. 

Among the third-class passengers at the prow was 
an Italian lad of a dozen years, small for his age, but 
robust; a daring, handsome, austere face, of Sicilian 
type. He was alone near the fore-mast, seated on a 
coil of cordage, beside a well-worn valise, which con- 
tained his belongings, and upon which he kept his 
hand. His face was brown and his black wavy hair 


JUNE 


339 



has recently issued from a great family sorrow, the 
face of a child, the expression of a man. 

A short time after departure, one of the steamer’s 
crew, a gray haired Italian, appeared on the bow lead- 
ing a little girl by the hand. Halting before the little 
Sicilian he said to him : 


descended almost to his shoulders. He was poorly 
dressed, with a tattered mantle thrown over his 
shoulders, and an old leather pouch on a cross-belt. 
He looked thoughtfully about him at the passengers, 
the ship, the sailors, who were'passing by on a run, and 
at the restless sea. He had the aspect of a boy who 


340 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL* 


“Here’s a traveling companion for you, Mario.” 

Then he went away. 

*The girl sat down on the pile of cordage beside the 
boy. They looked at one another. 

“Where are you going?” asked the Sicilian. 

‘ ‘ The girl answered : “To Malta, by way^f Naples. ’ ’ 

Then added: “I go to see my father and mother, 
who are waiting for me. My name is Giulietta Fag- 
giani. ” 

The boy was silent. After a few minutes he took 
from his pouch some bread and some dried fruit , the 
girl had some biscuits ; they ate. 

“We are going to have some fun!” shouted the 
Italian sailor, as he passed rapidly; “now we com- 
mence to toss!” 

The wind increased more and more, the steamer 
rolled violently. However, the two children, who did 
not become seasick, paid no attention to it. The little 
girl smiled. She was nearly the same age as her com- 
panion, but was a great deal taller; a brown face, 
slender, somewhat delicate, and dressed quite mod- 
estly. Her hair was short and curly; on her head she 
wore a red kerchief and two hoops of silver in her 
ears. 

They talked about themselves while they ate. The 
boy had lost both father and mother. The father, a 
laborer, had died a few days before in Liverpool, leav^- 
ing hiim alone ; and the Italian consul had sent him 
back to his native town, to Palermo, where he still had 
some distant relatives left. The little girl had been 
taken to London the preceding year, by a widowed 
aunt, who loved her very much and to whom her par- 
ents had given her for a time, trusting in a promise of 
an inheritance. However, a few months afterwards 


JUNE 


341 


the aunt was crushed by an omnibus, and died without 
leaving a penny; and so she was on her way back to 
Italy. They had both been recommended to the care 
of the Italian sailors. 

“So,” finished the little maid, “my father and 
mother thought I would return rich, and instead I am 
going back poor. But they will love me all the same. 
And my brothers will also. I have four, all small. 
I am the oldest at home. I dress them. They will be 
so happy to see me. I will go in on tiptoe. The sea 
is ugly!” 

Then she asked the boy: “And are you returning to 
your relatives?” 

“Yes — if they want me.” 

“Do they not love yoij?” 

“I don’t know. ” 

“I shall be thirteen at Christmas,” said the girl. 

Then they spoke of the sea, and of the people on 
board around them. They stayed near each other all 
day, exchanging a few words every now and then. 
The passengers believed them to be brother and sister. 

The girl knitted at a stocking, the boy meditated, 
and the sea grew rougher and rougher. When they 
parted to go to bed that night the girl said to Mario, 
“Pleasant dreams.” 

“No one will have pleasant dreams, my poor chil- 
dren!” exclaimed the Italian sailor, running past, in 
answer to a call from the captain. 

When the boy was about to reply with a “good- 
night” to his little friend, an unexpected dash of water 
dealt him a violent blow, and flung him heavily 
against a seat. 

“My dear, you are bleeding!” cried the girl, flinging 
herself upon him. The pnssengers, who were escap- 


342 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


ing below, did not heed them. The girl knelt down 
beside Mario, who had been stunned by the blow, 
wiped the blood from his brow, and pulling the red 
kerchief from her hair she tied it about his head, then 
pressed his head to her breast in order to tie the ends, 
and in doing this she received a spot of blood on her 
yellow waist, just above the girdle. Mario shook him- 
self and rose. 

“Are you better?” asked the girl. 

“I don’t even feel it now,” he replied. 

“Sleep well,” said Giulietta. 

“Good-night,” responded Mario. And they de- 
scended two flights of steps to their berths. 

The sailor’s prediction came to be true, for before 
they could get to sleep a fearful tempest had broken 
loose. It was like the sudden assault of furious great 
horses which in a few minutes had split a mast and 
carried away like leaves three boats which were sus- 
pended to the falls, and four cows on the bow. On 
board the steamer arose a confusion, a terror, an 
uproar, an outburst of shrieks, wails and prayers, 
enough to make the hair stand on end. All night 
long the tempest continued to increase in fury, and at 
daybreak it was still increasing. The dreadful waves 
dashing transversely against the steamer broke over 
the deck and smashed, split and overturned every- 
thing into the sea. The platform which covered the 
engine was destroyed, and the water rushed in with a 
terrible roar; the fires went out; the engineers fled; 
huge and impetuous streams forced their way every- 
where. 

A thunderous voice shouted: “To the pumps!” 

It was the voice of the captain. The sailors rushed 
to the pumps. But a sudden wave striking the vessel 


JUNE 343 

on the stern, destroyed bulwarks and hatchways and 
sent a flood within. 

All the passengers, more dead than alive, had fled 
into the grand saloon for refuge. The captain finally 
made his appearance. 

“Captain! Captain!” they all shrieked at once. 
“What is going on? How do we stand? Is there any 
hope! Save us!” 

The captain waited until they were silent, then said, 
calmly : 

“Let us resign ourselves to our fate.” 

A woman cried, “Mercy!” No one else could utter 
a sound. Terror had frozen them all. A long time 
passed thus in a sepulchral silence. All looked at one 
another with livid faces. The sea still raged and 
roared. The steamer rolled, pitched heavily. The 
captain attempted to launch a lifeboat; five sailors 
entered it, and the boat was lowered; but the waves 
overturned it, and two of the sailors were drowned, 
among them the Italian. The others with difficulty 
succeeded in catching hold of the ropes and draw 
ing themselves on board again. 

After this even the sailors lost all courage. Two 
hours later the steamer had sunk in the water to the 
height of the port holes. 

Meanwhile, a terrible spectacle presented itself on 
the deck. Mothers pressed their children desperately 
to their breasts; friends embraced one another and 
bade each other farewell ; some rushed down into the 
cabins, that they might die without seeing the ocean. 
One of the passengers shot himself in the head with a 
pistol, and violently fell head foremost down the stairs 
of the cabin, where he expired. 

Some clung frantically to each other ; women were 


344 


A BOVS LIFE AT SCHOOL 


seized with horrible convulsions. Several were kneel- 
ing around the priest. A chorus of sobs, of infantile 
laments and of strange and acute voices was heard; 
and here and there were seen persons immovable as 
statues, stupefied, with eyes dilated and sightless, — 
faces of corpses and maniacs. The two children, 
Giulietta and Mario, clung to a mast and gazed at the 
sea with fixed eyes, as though senseless. 

The sea had quieted down a little ; but the steamer 
was still sinking slowly. Only a few minutes was left 
them. 

“The shallop at sea!” shouted the captain. 

The shallop, the last one left them, was lowered into 
the water, and fourteen sailois and three passengers 
descended into it. 

The captain remained on board. 

“Come down with us! “ they shouted to him from 
below. 

“I must die at my post,” replied the captain. 

“We may meet a vessel,” cried the sailors to him; 
“we shall be saved! Come down! you are lost!” 

‘ ‘ I shall remain. ’ ’ 

“There is room for one more!” shouted the sailors, 
turning to the other passengers. “A woman!” 

A woman advanced, aided by the captain, but on 
beholding the distance which lay between the sinking 
steamer and the shallop, she did not feel enough cour- 
age to leap down, and fell back upon the deck. The 
other women had nearly all fainted, and seemed 
dead. 

“A boy!” shouted the sailors. 

At that cry the Sicilian lad and his little friend, who 
had been petrified as by a supernatural stupor, were 
suddenly aroused again by a violent instinct to save 



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JUNE 


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their lives. Detaching themselves from the mast, 
they flew to the side of the vessel, shrieking both at 
once, “Take me!” and endeavoring in turn to drive 
the other back, like maddened beasts. 

“The smallest!” shouted the sailors. “The boat is 
over-loaded! The smallest!” 

When the girl heard these words she dropped her 
arms as if struck by lightning, and stood motionless, 
gazing at Mario with lustreless eyes. 

For a moment Mario looked at her, — saw the spot of 
blood on her breast, — remembered. The flash of a 
divine thought gleamed across his face. 

“The smallest!” shouted the sailors in chorus, with 
imperious impatience. “We are going!” 

Then Mario cried in a voice which no longer seemed 
his own, “She is the lighter! It is for you, Giulietta! 
You have a father and mother! I am alone! I give 
you my place ! Go down !” 

“Throw her into the sea!” shouted the sailors. 

Seizing Giulietta by the waist, Mario threw her into 
the sea. 

The girl uttered a cry and made a heavy splash; a 
sailor grasped her by the arm, and dragged her into 
the boat. 

The boy stood upright on the edge of the vessel with 
his head held high, his hair flowing in the wind, — 
immovable, tranquil, sublime. The shallop moved 
off, just in time to escape the whirling motion which 
the vessel produced as It sank, and which threatened 
to overturn it. 

Then the girl, who had been until that moment 
almost senseless, raised her eyes to the boy and burst 
out crying. 

“Good-bye, Mario!” she cried, amid her sobs, hold- 


346 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


ing her arms outstretched towards him. “Good bye! 
good-bye! good-bye!’’ 

“Good-bye!’’ answered the boy, raising his hand. 

The shallop moved swiftly away across the stormy 
sea, beneath the dark sky. On board the steamer no 
one shouted. The water was already grazing the edge 
of the deck. The boy, suddenly falling on his knees, 
raised his folded hands and his eyes to heaven. The 
girl covered her face. When she raised her head 
again she glanced over the sea; but the steamer had 
disappeared. 


JULY 


THE LAST PAGE FROM MY MOTHER 

Saturday, the ist. 

So the year is finished, Enrico, and it is well that 
you should be left with the remembrance of the last 
day, with the image of the sublime child, who gave his 
life for his friend. You are now about to be separated 
from your teachers and companions, and I must give 
you some sad news. The separation will not only last 
three months, but forever. Because your father, for 
professional reasons, is obliged to leave Turin, and we 
must go with him. 

We depart next autumn. Then you will have to 
enter a new school. You are sorry for this, are you 
not? I am sure that you love your old school, where 
twice a day, for about four years, you have felt the 
pleasure of working; where for so long a time you 
have seen, at stated hours, the same boys, the same 
teachers, the same parents, and your own father or 
mother waiting for you with a smile , your old school, 
where your mind first opened, where you have found 
so many kind companions; where every word that you 
have heard uttered has had your welfare for its pur- 
pose, and where you have not suffered a single dis- 
pleasure which has not been useful to you! Bear, 
then, this affection with you, and bid these boys a 
hearty farewell Some of them will experience mis- 
fortunes by losing their fathers and mothers; others 
will die young ; others, perhaps, will nobly shed their 

347 


348 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


blood in bcittle; many will become able and honest 
workmen, the fathers of honest and industrious work- 
men like themselves ; and who can tell whether there 
may not also be among them one who will render 
great services to his country, and make his name 
glorious. Part, then, from them with affection; leave 
a portion of your soul here, in this great family 
where you entered as a baby, and from which you 
emerge a young man, and which your father and 
mother loved so dearly, because you were so much 
beloved by it. 

School is a mother, my Enrico. It took you from 
my arms when you could hardly speak, and now it 
gives you back to me, big, strong, good, studious; 
blessings on it, and may you never in the course of your 
life forget it, my son. Oh, it is impossible that you 
should forget it! When you become a man, you will 
make the tour of the world, behold cities and wonder- 
ful monuments, and you will forget many among 
them; but that modest white building, with those 
closed blinds, where the first flower of your intelli- 
gence budded, you will see until your dying day, as I 
shall always behold the house in which I heard your 
voice for the first time. 

THE EXAMINATIONS 

Tuesday, the 4th. 

Here we are finally, at the examinations! In the 
streets around the school-hbuse no other subject is 
heard spoken of, from boys, fathers, mothers, and even 
tutors; examinations, subjects, averages, dismissals, 
promotions; all speak the same words. Yesterday 
morning we had composition; this morning we will 


JULY 


349 


have arithmetic. It Avas touching to behold all the 
parents, as they accompanied their sons to school, 
imparting to them their last advice in the street, and 
many mothers led their sons to their seats, to see 
whether the inkstand was filled, and to see if their 
pens were good, and they still continued to hover 
around the entrance and to say : 

‘ ‘ Courage ! Attention ! I entreat you ! ’ ’ 

Our assistant teacher was Coatti, the one with the 
black beard, who has the voice of a lion, and never 
punishes any one. Some of the boys were white with 
fear. When the teacher broke the seal of the letter 
from the city hall, and drew out the problem, not even 
a breath was heard. He announced the problem 
loudly, gazing at each one in turn, with terrible eyes; 
but we understood that had he been able to announce 
the answer also, so as to see us all promoted, -he would 
have gladly done so. After working at it for an hour, 
many began to grow weary, because the problem was 
difficult. One cried. Crossi dealt himself blows on 
the head. Many of them are blameless, poor boys, for 
not knowing, for they have not had much time to 
study, and have been neglected by their parents. But 
Providence was at hand. You should have seen 
Derossi, and* the trouble he took to help them ; how 
he endeavored to get a figure passed on, and in 
prompting the solution of a problem without being 
detected ; so anxious for all that he seemed to be our 
teacher himself. Garrone also, who is excellent in 
arithmetic, helped as much as possible, and he even 
assisterd Nobis, who, finding himself ensnared, was 
extremely kind. 

Stardi remained for more than an hour immovable, 
with his eyes on the problem, and his fists on his tern- 


350 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


pies, and then he got through with the whole thing in 
five minutes. The teacher made his round among the 
benches, saying, “Be calm! I advise you to be 
calm!” When he noticed that someone had lost his 
courage, he opened his mouth, as though about to 
devour him, in imitation of a lion, so as to make him 
laugh and encoiirage him. Toward eleven o’clock, 
peeping down through the blinds, I saw many parents 
pacing the street impatiently. There was Precossi’s 
father, in his blue blouse, who had deserted his shop 
with his face still black. Crossi’s mother, the vege- 
table-vender, was there, and also Nelli’s mother, 
dressed in black, who could not stand still. Shortly 
before noon my father arrived and raised his eyes to 
my window; my dear father! At noon we had all fin- 
ished. And what a spectacle it was when we emerged 
from that school-house ! 

Every one ran to meet the boys, asked questions, 
looked over the leaves of the copy-books to compare 
them with the work of their comrades. 

“How many problems? What is the total? And 
the subtraction? And the answer? And the punctua- 
tion of decimals?” 

All the teachers were running about here and there, 
called in a hundred directions. 

My father immediately took the rough copy- 
book from my hand, looked at it, and said, “It is 
well.” 

Beside us was the blacksmith, Precossi, who was also 
inspecting his son’s work, but rather uneasily, and not 
understanding it. Turning to my father: 

“Will you kindly favor me with the total?” 

My father read the number. The other gazed and 
reckoned. 


JULY 351 

“Bravo, little one!” he exclaimed, perfectly con- 
tented. 

My father and he stared at each other for a while 
with a kind smile, like two friends. My father offered 
his hand, and the other shook it; then they parted, 
saying, “Farewell until the oral examination.” 

“Until the oral examination.” 

After walking a short distance, we heard a falsetto 
voice which made us turn our heads. It was the 
blacksmith iron-monger who was singing. 

THE FINAL EXAMINATION 

Friday, the 7th. 

This morning we were given our oral examinations. 
We were all in the school-room at eight o’clock, and 
at a quarter past they commenced to call us, four at a 
time, into the large hall, where stood a large table 
covered with a green cloth; seated around it the prin- 
cipal and four teachers, among them our own. I was 
one of the first called out. Poor teacher! how plainly 
I perceived this morning that he is very fond of us! 

While the others were being questioned he had no 
eyes for any one but us. When we were uncertain in 
our replies, he was disturbed and became calm again 
when we gave a fine answer; he heard everything, and 
made us a thousand signs with his hand and head, to 
say to us : 

“Good! — No! pay attention! — Slower! — Courage!” 

Had he been permitted to talk, he would have 
prompted everything to us. If the fathers of all these 
pupils had been in his place, one after the other, they 
could not have done more. They would have cried, 
“Thank you!” ten times before them all. And when 


552 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


the other teachers said to me, “That is well; you may 
go,” his eyes beamed with pleasure. 

I hastened back to the school-room to wait for my 
father. Nearly all were still there. I sat down next 
to Garrone. I did not feel cheerful, for I was think- 
ing that it was the last time that we should be near 
each other for an hour. I had not yet imparted to 
Garrone the fact that I should not go through the 
fourth grade with him, because I was to leave Turin 
with my father. He knew nothing. 'And there he 
sat, doubled up together, with his big head recliiyng 
on the desk, making ornaments around the photograph 
of his father, who was dressed like a machinist. He 
is a tall, large man, with a bull neck and a serious, 
honest look, like himself. And sitting thus doubled 
together, with his blouse a little open in front, I per- 
ceived on his bare and robust breast the gold cross 
which Nelli’s mother had presented to him, when she 
learned that he protected her son. But I would be 
obliged to tell him sometime that I was going away, 
so I said to him : 

“Garrone, my father is going to leave Turin this 
autumn, for good.” 

He inquired whether I was going also. I answered 
that I was. 

“You will not go through the fourth grade with 
us?” he said to me. I answered, “No.” 

He did not speak to me for a while, but kept on 
drawing. Then, without raising his head, he asked: 

“And shall you remember your third-grade compan- 
ions?” 

“Yes,” I replied, “every one of them; but you 
more than the others. Who can forget you?” 

He gazed at me fixedly and seriously, with a look 



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JULY 


353 


that meant a thousand things, but was silent. He 
only offered me his left hand, pretending to continue 
his drawing with the other; and I pressed his strong 
and loyal hand between mine. Just then the teacher 
entered hurriedly with a red face, and said, in a low, 
quick and joyful voice: 

“Good! So far all have done well; let us hope that 
the rest will do as well. Good, boys! Courage! I 
am very well satisfied. “ And to demonstrate to us his 
contentment and to cheer us, as he went out hastily he 
pretended to stumble and caught himself at the wall, 
to prevent a fall ; he whom we had never seen laugh ! 
This appeared so strange, that instead of laughing we 
all remained stupefied and smiled, but not one of us 
laughed. 

Well, I do not know, — that act of childish joy caused 
me both pain and tenderness. That moment of cheer- 
fulness was his reward — the reward for nine months of 
kindness, patience and even sorrow! For that he had 
worked so long; for that he had even come to teach 
us when he was ill, poor teacher! That was all he 
demanded of us, in exchange for so much affection 
and so much care! 

And, now, it seems to me that I shall always see 
him as he pretended to stumble whenever I think of 
him; and if, when I have become a man, he is still 
alive, and we meet, I will tell him about that deed 
which touched my heart ; and I will kiss him on his 
white head. 

FAREWELL 

Monday, the loth. 

It was one o’clock when we all met once more for 
the last time in school, to hear the examination results 


354 


, A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


and to get our little promotion books. The street was 
filled with relatives, who had even invaded the main 
corridor and many had entered the class-rooms, push- 
ing their way even to the teacher’s desk. They filled 
the whole space between the wall and the front desks 
in our room. There were Garrone’s father, Derossi’s 
mother, the blacksmith Precossi, Coretti, Mrs. Nelli, 
the vegetable-vender, the little mason’s father, 
Stardi’s father, and many others whom I had never 
before seen. 

On all sides a whispering and a buzzing sound were 
heard that sounded like the noise one hears in a 
crowded public square. The teacher entered, and a 
profound silence followed. 

In his hand he held the list, which he immediately 
began to read. 

“Abatucci, promoted, sixty - sixtieths ; Archini, 
promoted, fifty-five seventieths,” — The little mason 
promoted ; Cross! promoted. Then he read loudly : 

“Ernest Derossi, promoted, seventy seventieths, 
and the first prize. ” 

All the parents who were there — and all who knew 
him — said: 

“Bravo, bravo, Derossi!” 

And shaking his golden curls, with his easy and 
beautiful smile, he glanced at his mother, who made 
him a salute with her hand. 

Garoffi,Garoffi, the Calabrian, promoted. Then three 
or four sent backj and one of them commenced to cry 
because his father, who was at the emtrance, made him 
a menacing gesture. But the teacher said to the father : 

“No, sir, excuse me; it is not always the boy’s 
fault, but sometimes his misfortune. And that is the 
case here. ” 


JULY 


355 


Then he read: “Nelli, promoted,- sixty-two seven- 
tieths.” His mother wafted him a kiss from her fan. 
Stardi also passed, with sixty-seven seventieths ; but, 
on hearing his high mark, he did not even smile, or 
remove his fists from his temples. The last was 
Votini, who had come combed nicely and with a new 
suit, — promoted. After reading the last name, the 
teacher rose and said : 

“Boys, this is the last time that we sball ourselves 
assemble together in this room. We have been 
together a year, and now we part good friends, do we 
not? I am sorry to leave you, my dear boys.” 

He interrupted himself, then he resumed: “If at 
times I have been impatient, without intending to be; 
and if I have been unjust, or too severe, I ask your 
forgiveness. 

“No, no!” cried the parents and many of the pupils. 
“No, teacher, never!” 

“Forgive me,” repeated the teacher, and think well 
of me. You will not be with me next year; but I 
shall see you again, and will always preserve you in 
my heart. Farewell, boys, until we meet again!” 

After saying this he stepped up among us, and we 
all offered to shake hands with him while we stood up 
on the seats, and caught hold of him by the arms, and 
by the tails of his coat; many kissed him; fifty voices 
cried simultaneously: 

“Farewell, until we meet again, teacher! — Thanks, 
teacher! — May you always be well and happy! — 
Remember us!” 

On leaving, I felt oppressed by the emotion. We all 
ran out confusedly. Boys were issuing from all the 
other class-rooms also. There was a great confusion 
and tumult of boys and parents, bidding the lady and 


A BOY’S LIFE AT SCHOOL 


^ 5 ^ 

men teachers good-bye and exchanging greetings 
among themselves. Four or five children had climbed 
on the teacher with the red feather and twenty around 
her, depriving her of breath; and they had almost 
torn off the little nun’s bonnet, and thrust a dozen 
bunches of flowers in the buttonholes of her black 
dress, and in her pockets. Many showed a great 
affection to Robetti, who had that day, for the first 
time, discarded his crutches. On all sides were heard 
the words: 

Good-bye, until next year! — Until the twentieth of 
October!” 

We greeted each other, too. Ah ! now all quarrels 
were forgotten at that moment. Votini, who had 
always been so jealous of Derossi, was the first to 
throw his arms around Derossi ’s neck. I bade the 
little mason good-bye and kissed him, just when he 
was about to make me his last hare’s face, dear boy! 
I took leave of Brecossi and also of Garoffi, who told 
me of the approach of his last lottery, and gave me a 
little delf paper-weight which had a broken corner; I 
bade all the others farewell. It was touching to see 
poor Nelli cling to Garrone, so that he could not be 
separated from him. All crowded around Garrone, 
and it was, ‘‘Good-bye, Garrone! — Farewell until we 
meet!” And they touched him, pressed his hands, 
and made much of him, that brave, sainted boy. His 
father appeared perfectly amazed, as he looked smil- 
ingly on. 

The last one whom I embraced in the street was Gar- 
rone, and I stifled a sob against his breast ; he kissed 
my forehead. Then I ran to my father and mother. 

My father asked me: “Have you spoken to all cf 
your comrades?” 


JULY 


357 


I replied that I had. 

“If there is any one of them whom you have 
wronged, go and ask his forgiveness and beg him to 
forget it. Is there any one?” 

“Not one,” I answered. 

“Farewell, then,” said my father, with a voice still 
full of emotion casting a last glance on the school- 
house. 

And I could not say anything. 












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